


blessing and a curse cast down on me

by shestepsintotheriver



Series: AUs [3]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: A variety of monsters, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Romantic Comedy, But also: Gothic, Clash of the Cliches, Gothic Comedy?, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Humor, I don't know what to call this, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Resolved Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Some angst, Stupidity, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-08
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:27:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 21,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22176262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shestepsintotheriver/pseuds/shestepsintotheriver
Summary: Steve's life is a romantic comedy. But he's not the main character. He's not the love-interest, either. He's the guy the main character dates before the love-interest. Yeah, he's not a fan either.Bucky's life is a gothic horror story. But he's not really the protagonist. Mostly because he's too annoyed to be, so he's more like the reluctant side-character who is only there for comic relief.Then, they meet, and the plot changes.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Series: AUs [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1437799
Comments: 451
Kudos: 225





	1. Steve

**Author's Note:**

> i don't know what this is either, but i'm having fun and ignoring my exams, so
> 
> also: we startin' out with two chapters, folks

_To Mr. Steve Rogers,_

_My name is James Barnes. You don’t know me, but we’ve got a mutual acquaintance—Sam Wilson? He’s my editor, you can totally check with that I’m not, like, a serial killer or anything—and he recommended you to me. I know this is probably be a really weird request, but to tell you the truth, I’m up shit creek and I’ve no idea who else to turn to._

_So. Context. If I haven’t scared you away already._

_A few years ago, I inherited an old-ass mansion from my Uncle. I’ve kept most of the interior exactly as it was, which includes his collection of paintings—and thus the reason I turn to you. You see, a few days ago, I noticed that one of the paintings had a weird stain on it that looked like it could be picked off pretty easily. As you have no doubt already guessed: it could not. I might have made a… smallish tear. It was an accident!_

_Anyhow, that all led me to check up on all the paintings, and lo and behold I found that they were all in desperate need of upkeep as well. Mostly stains, maybe some water damage? I don’t know, I’ve no idea how to care for these things, they just look a little funky to me. Most of these are old paintings and I honestly don’t think they can be taken down and left at whatever workshop that would normally handle such things (seriously, they might be superglued to the wall, I don’t fucking know, if you can get them down, I will, like, pay you extra or whatever)._

_Long story short: I need someone to come clean them up, do a bit of restoration, I guess. They’ve got sentimental value, I can’t just leave them like this, my Uncle would reach across time and space and slap me for being negligent. Well, no, he wouldn’t, he’s—never mind, that’s not important._

_Therein is also the second problem: I live in the middle of bumfuck nowhere. Or, well, not nowhere, but I don’t have any immediate neighbors and the closest city is around an hour’s drive down the road, and I don’t get many visitors except the mailman. You get the point._

_I just need someone who a) has the necessary skillset to not fuck up these paintings any more than I already have, and b) will be willing to move out here for the duration. It’s a big house, I won’t crowd you, and the guest room’s plenty big. All the facilities are at your disposal, and I’m pretty sure one of the attic rooms can be refurbished as a studio if you want to keep working on your other paintings while you’re here. I’ll reimburse you for any materials you need, of course, and I’ll pay whatever you want for the work. I don’t know how much time it’ll take, you can take a look first, see if it’s even doable and figure out if you’re okay with it._

_Like I said. I am kinda desperate._

_Have a good day,_

_James Barnes_

_P.S. I have a cat, in case you have allergies or something_

_P.P.S. you can totally bring your pet, if you have any, my cat WILL behave_

_P.P.P.S. just, like, even if this sounds like not your thing, could you maybe recommend me someone who can take the job?_

_*_

The email is the weirdest request Steve has ever received. Considering the kind of commissions that he sometimes gets (sexy, fucked-out Robin Hood. The Disney version. You know, the fox that everyone found weirdly magnetic as kids), that’s really saying a lot. He is also, however, a starving artist, and to tell you the truth, he could really do with getting out of the city for a while.

See, Steve is cursed.

Or, well, it’s not a curse as such, that’s a bit dramatic. But it _feels_ like a curse. Imagine a romantic comedy: there’s the main character and the person they’re supposed to be with. But before The One, there’s another. The placeholder, if you will. The person that the main character has to be with before they can meet The One. The person who puts their life into perspective and make them realize why The One is the better fit for them.

And that guy? Is Steve.

Every single one of his exes have found their true loves or whatever while they were with him. He hasn’t been cheated on—thank God—but the pain of losing each and every lover to another, of seeing them fall in love again so fast, sometimes even while they were still with him? That shit hurts.

And a week ago, it happened again. Or, well, could you really call a person ‘a lover’ when all you’ve done is meet at a bar and have a one-night stand? In any case, the curse worked; he and his one-night stand went to a bagel-shop the morning after, and she slipped on a coffee spill and fell right into the handsome bagel-makers arms, and _boom_ , it happened. Steve was literally just programming her number into his phone.

And the week before that, he had gotten the invitation to another ex’s wedding.

Safe to say, he is not having a good time.

He’s thirty-two, lives day to day doing commissions and trying to expand his art portfolio with pieces that won’t make him blush, and he eats cup-noodles way too often for someone who isn’t still in college. His apartment is tiny, has crappy water pressure, and he is one more baseless complaint away from fist-fighting his landlord in the staircase. Somehow, he neither has neither the scurvy nor an eviction notice to his name. Keeping him healthy and housed is probably taking every single ounce of good fortune, nothing left for the romance.

He needs a vacation. This might be it.

Trusting in his luck—and Sam, whom Steve hits up the second he gets the email—he makes the drive to James Barnes’ house. As the man had said, it truly is in the middle of nowhere. Situated within sight of the Catskills, to Steve is feels like driving headfirst into the wild. He’s a Brooklyn boy through and through, and the most ‘nature’ he’s ever endured for any stretch of time has a) Brighton Beach in summer and b) Central Park in autumn. He’s barely left New York State, and when he has it’s only been to go to D.C. or another major city. This is a whole new world. 

He stops for gas in the nearby town, eats some lunch, and gets back on the road. He hasn’t brought a whole lot with him; like Barnes had suggested, Steve is only planning on taking a look around for now and decide whether he can do the job properly. If he ends up staying, he’ll drive back down to New York City in a few days’ time, he’s got enough clothes to last him for the first stretch.

The house has its own private road. Because of course it does. Said road is surrounded by trees on all sides, stooped giants that seem to be reaching for him as he drives by. They’re beautiful, in their own way; if he ends up staying, he’ll want to draw them.

Dark clouds have been rolling in from the west since he hit the town, threatening rain and thunder. Already, Steve has seen flashes on the horizon, lightening dancing closer with each hour. Because of this, the house is rather intimidating at first glance.

It’s a grand old Victorian-style mansion, the three-stories, brick-built, with a dark, slate roof, and sash-windows. There’s a front porch, but sadly no swing, and a medley of vegetation cradles the house, colorful flowers, dense bushes, and crooked trees. The house seems rather looming, all dark beams and iron railings, intricate trimmings and a single, spike-like turret.

As a kid, Steve would’ve avoided such a house like the plague (as long as no one said anything about it or dared him to go in. Screw the nightmares, he would’ve done it).

As an adult, Steve would like to think that it is his common sense, not foolhardiness, that makes him approach the house in a calm and steady manner. Barnes had said that his Uncle’s family had had it built simply to match the aesthetic of the day, and Steve at least trusts Barnes to be sensible and not live in a haunted goddamn mansion. The man had seemed perfectly normal over email, if a little frantic, but Sam swore he was good people, and that’s enough for Steve.

When Steve parks his motorcycle—really nothing more than a ramshackle engine on wheels that is in desperate need of some tender-loving care—the first rumble of thunder rolls down from the mountains, quickly followed by rain. Soaked within minutes, he makes it to the front porch with his things and knocks on the door, shivering slightly.

An angel of a man opens the door.


	2. Bucky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which we do chapter one from Bucky's side of things

“Listen up, squad,” Bucky calls out loudly to the empty house. “When Mr. Rogers gets here, he will not find anything out of the ordinary. You will all be respectful. The attic room I cleared out and the guest room in the east wing will be _off. Limits._ Failure to comply will result in dire repercussions. Have I made myself clear?”

There a groan and a shutter, petulant. Upstairs, the old rocking chair creaks.

Bucky sighs. That’s the most he can expect. He turns to the cat-that-is-not-a-cat. “You, too, Alpine. No biting, no scratching, no maiming, no eating. So help me God, I will stop buying those fancy-ass salmon treats.”

Alpine yawns too wide, showing off all her teeth. Her unsettling little Maine Coon face is folded into a moue of complicity, her eyes squinting cutely at him. She purrs like a plane engine, shaking the crystal glasses in the ornate china cabinet.

“I’m gonna take that as assent,” he tells her, picking her up and smooching her soft forehead. She’s small for a Maine Coon, barely bigger than any other housecat. But then, she’s not a Maine Coon, she just likes the aesthetic.

Bucky brings her out into the backyard, sidestepping the handsy vines to avoid tripping onto his face. He’s done that before. Many times. At two in the morning when he’s come outside to yell at the bats for using his backyard as a sex club. Damn vines. Also, damn bats. Little sex freaks.

As he approaches the pond, the two swans that have unfortunately made it their home flee the shore and swim out into the middle of the pond where Bucky can’t reach them. Were he alone, they would’ve tried to browbeat him and stolen his lunch money or whatever it is that swans do to unsuspecting authors, but he’s got Alpine under his arm; the only thing left for them is to hiss angrily at Bucky from a distance.

Shaking Alpine at them (she doesn’t mind, just squirms like she’s having the time of her life), he yells, “I am warning you, devil birds! Do not harass my visitor. That goes for you jackasses, too!” The last is not aimed at the swans, but rather the forest beyond his property. A great many pairs of beady red eyes are watching from within the trees. “I will chop down each and every one of you and turn you into printing paper for the next Joe Abercrombie novel, don’t test me!”

That sorted, he marches back inside, Alpine still held tight. She’s not allowed outside unsupervised. Not after last time.

Like most things in this house, Bucky inherited her from his Uncle Eddie. Unlike most of these things, however, Alpine had never actually cared much for Eddie, and her attachment to Bucky had come as a surprise to everyone. She wasn’t much for people, the little beast, and it’s since Bucky moved in that she started looking even vaguely approachable.

Her affection has made living in the house slightly less daunting. Bucky’s spent half his life here, holidays and birthdays and anytime he could get away from the city but being put in charge of it had come as a surprise. After all, Uncle Eddie isn’t dead. He’s just gone on a walk-about in Europe. But since his holidays tend to take the half of a century, for now, Bucky is truly the only master of the house.

It has been… an adjustment.

Uncle Eddie had always made it seem so easy. Under his watchful eye, Bucky had grown used to the disappearing rooms, the hair-raising noises in the middle of the night, and the odd visitors in the yard. Eddie had taught Bucky the best he knew and swanned off, leaving only vague instructions and a code with which to reach him should it all go tits-up.

Bucky loves Eddie, he truly does, but the man is a menace.

For his peace of mind, he checks the guest room one final time. The house and it’s… _occupants_ aren’t fond of outsiders, and he’s had to redo the sheets a couple of times already. Thankfully, his threat seems to have worked, and the stately bedroom is as welcoming as it knows how to be. Bucky sincerely hopes this Rogers fella isn’t the fainting sort. The in-suite bathroom has a lot of hard edges and a thirst for blood.

Just kidding. Or is he.

As Rogers will soon be arriving, Bucky decides to spend the wait working. Who knows how much he’ll get done once the other moves in; what can he say, he’s a curious sort. And also really fond of procrastinating his deadlines.

On the second floor, there’s a grand library-slash-office where Uncle Eddie used to find Bucky asleep and covered in books in the small space under the desk. It’s one of Bucky’s favorite rooms in the house; even if he weren’t a writer, he would still feel at home amongst the books and ink, the scent alone enough to put him at easy.

The desk faces away from the large stained window. Like all the furniture in the house, it’s ornately carved, the legs shaped like griffins. Bucky’s many, _many_ notebooks are scattered across the surface, fanning out around his laptop, one of the few electronic devices that more or less always work around here.

He puts Alpine down and sits in his chair, cracking his knuckles and getting to work.

Or, well, not so much to work-to work, but more, you know, scrolling through Pinterest boards and looking up fun facts about wild canines that might come in handy for his book. Did you know that a group of foxes is called a _skulk_? Or a _leash_ , or an _earth_ , but _skulk_ is much cooler. Or did you know that male foxes are also called _reynards_?

Something winds around Bucky’s ankle. It’s not Alpine, because she’s still rolling around on the couch. It’s moist and strong and it’s tightening its grip.

He reaches down and slaps distractedly, not even looking away from his screen. “You stop that.”

The tentacle retracts. You can almost hear it whining.

This is the kind of thing Bucky wants to avoid when Rogers gets here. Bucky has had a whole life to get used to the house; he, his sisters, and Uncle Eddie are the only ones to find it truly charming. Not even Bucky’s parents are that fond of it, despite having stayed there many times. Ordinary people? Not so much. Not even the mailman likes it, and the house can usually be counted on to keep nice for harmless intruders such as him. 

The house had _not_ been pleased when Bucky first announced his intention to invite a stranger there. He’d endured a week’s worth of icy showers, no heating, and unstable internet, but he survived. The house is not the boss of him, he is the master of this godforsaken den of creepy-crawlies, and he will not be bullied by it!

In the end, it bent to his will. Not happily, but it did. Okay, so he’s still finding raisin cookies in the chocolate-chip cookie tin, usually only discovering this after he’s already stuffed his face. Like he said: it was not a happy surrender.

Truthfully, if he’d had to endure a week with only raisin cookies, he might’ve given in first.

The broken grandfather clock in the corner of the library chimes three times, a deep and sonorous sound that seems to shake the very foundations of the earth. Bucky groans and gets up, knees cracking—getting older is so _hard_ , his skeleton can’t handle this—as he moves out into the hallway towards the window. There’s a driver coming up the road, barely distinguishable from this distance.

Alpine’s already run for the front door, her little gremlin face lit up. She definitely needs to be threatened again, that expression just spells trouble. At least he can trust her not to go for the throat… for now. She’ll maybe trip Rogers, but that’s it.

Bucky follows her leisurely, his ankle popping as he descends the stairs—maybe he should drink more milk, bones need calcium, right? He’ll put it on the shopping list. Better add the premodifier ‘cows’ to the ‘milk’, or else he might be cursed with goat’s milk again. Good for cheese, not for drinking.

Outside, there’s a roar of thunder followed by the tapping of rain on the roof. Rogers knocks on the door. He must have hauled ass to get there so fast.

“Remember,” Bucky tells Alpine. “No shenanigans.”

She meows at him. She’s getting really good at mimicking real cats.

He opens the door, swings it wide, polite smile at the ready—

There is an incubus on his doorstep. 


	3. Steve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Steve's day gets weirder and he makes a friend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no one ask me how my exam is doing, today is procrastination day

Eyes bugging out, jaw slack, Steve stands agape in the doorway.

James Barnes is squinting at him, a frown etched on his brow. He’s a tall, muscular man, though not quite as tall or buff as Steve himself, with long, dark hair, strands of which are escaping his messy bun, light eyes, and pouty pink lips. In the back of Steve’s mind, his last shred of good sense screams at him to stop noticing that, that is _not_ why he’s here, remember last week, remember the curse? _Pull yourself together!_

“You Steve Rogers?” Barnes asks, vaguely disbelieving.

“Um. Yes? I mean, _yes_ , I am. I’m Steve Rogers, nice to meet you, Mr. Barnes.” Steve sticks out his hand. It’s clammy and cold, but when Barnes finally shakes it, he’s at least kind enough to ignore that. Even if he is still eyeing Steve like he fears that he’s going to strip and do the mambo right there on his porch.

“Call me Bucky,” Barnes says slowly. Why is he looking at Steve like that? Has his shirt gone see-through again? No, wait, he’s wearing his leather jacket, nothing to see here, no, sir, _stop thinking about your nipples_. “Come in. The parlor’s just around the corner, go sit down, I’ll bring you a towel. This is Alpine.” He gestures at the small and excessively fluffy cat peeking curiously at Steve from behind her human’s legs. “Don’t take it personally if she keeps her distance at first, she’ll come to you if she wants anything. She’s perfectly nice, _aren’t you, baby_?”

The cat _mrows_ , almost indignant. Her brilliant green-gold eyes seem to penetrate Steve’s _soul_.

Steve toes off his wet sneakers—don’t look at him like that, he can’t afford proper motorcycle boots, and his sneakers work just _fine, Ma_. Bucky absconds with his jacket, murmuring something about drying it in the bathroom, and with one last watchful look at Steve, he disappears up the elegant staircase.

Inside, the house is just as foreboding as it had appeared, though Steve suspects that the heavy rain and thunder probably make it seem more so. The foyer is largely taken up by the grand, curving staircase with broad bannisters that he can imagine kids sliding down while their parents yell at them to be careful.

The wallpaper is old but well-kept, exquisitely patterned in dark hues. Bucky really hadn’t been kidding when he said he’d kept the house as it was; stepping inside feels a little bit like stepping into a time-capsule—a very well-kept and expensive one. Seriously, Steve’s pretty sure that if he auctioned off the low divan over there, he could pay off at least a fraction of his student loans. Like, twelve percent of them. And that’s not to mention the plethora of trinkets and oddities that line the walls, the shelves, the tables. That statue there looks like a genuine Rodin, what the fuck.

No wonder Bucky was so willing to throw money at him.

The parlor is just as opulent as the foyer, but at least it’s a bit more inviting, not nearly as monumental. There’s a real fireplace and a fire burning low, spreading the homey smell of wood throughout the house. Steve takes a seat the very edge of the ugliest couch. It’s much more comfortable than it looks, tempting him to sink into it. But it might react badly to getting Steve’s wet hair and shoulders all over it. 

From his seat, he can just glimpse the backyard and the garden; hopefully, he’ll have a view of it from his room, the plants out front had looked really interesting. If only he’ll have the time to draw them all; Steve has a weakness for hipster plant and flower renderings that he will admit to absolutely no one. Especially because he makes those sketches in a Moleskine, and his friends would never be able to let it go if they knew.

Something bumps his leg and he looks down.

For a supposedly reserved cat, Alpine has kept on his heels all the way through the foyer and into the parlor. Steve hasn’t touched her—not because he doesn’t want to, but because he doesn’t have a lot of experience with cats and is maybe just a little bit wary of them. All the alley cats he’s ever met have sensed his trepidation and kept their distance, not wanting his fumbling attempts at ear-scratches. Dogs are easier to read.

Except Alpine has a strangely human face. It’s slightly daunting, actually. Like she’s a little sphinx. She cocks her head at him, pupils big and round. Steve awkwardly wriggles his fingers at her. “Hello.”

She meows.

And jumps onto the arm of the couch to sit right next to him and stare at his face. Like master, like pet, it seems. Steve tries to ignore her—he read somewhere that you should avoid looking a cat in the eye, or it would take it as a threat. But it’s really goddamn difficult when Alpine’s eyes are boring into the side of his face and her fluffy body is near vibrating.

Is this how he dies? It kind of feels like this is how he dies. _Here lies Steve Rogers, slain in his prime by a dissatisfied cat._ What if he’s sitting in her spot? Should he move? Apologize? How smart are cats even? He should’ve done more research, this is horrible.

Suddenly, Alpine surges forward. She puts her curiously large paws on his shoulder and goes right for his face. It happens so quickly; Steve only has time to close his eyes and pray that the scars won’t be too bad.

But she doesn’t disfigure him. Instead, she runs her soft cheek and velvet chin all over his cheek, purring outrageously and chittering at him. Satisfied with her work, she jumps into his lap and gets to down to rubbing her face on his chest, burrowing into him and kneading with her paws. Which are quite strong, for the record.

“Um,” Steve says. “Good kitty?”

She purrs louder and settles in, spreading out like a slinky across his lap. When he just sits there, frozen, she bats at his arm with her front paw and looks up at him in a distinctly _do I have to present you with written instructions, peasant?_ manner. The look becomes squinty-eyed contentment when Steve carefully starts petting her, stroking her back and scratching her ruff.

“What are you doing?”

Steve jumps; Alpine complains. Bucky’s in the doorway, only half-illuminated by the low lighting from the antique lamps.

“I’m sorry, I—”

“Not you, Rogers, I’m talking to her.” He puts a hand on his hip. “What do you think you’re doing, missy?” Alpine enthusiastically ignores him. “Fine. Fine! See if I care. You want that towel, Rogers? I don’t think I’m gonna be able to show you around for a while.”

“Yes, please, and please, call me Steve.”

Bucky frowns at him some more. “Alright. Steve.”

Why does he have to say it like that? This is an outrage.

*

Steve is relegated to cat-scratching duties for almost an hour before Alpine grows bored and saunters out of the room—not without throwing Bucky a triumphant look and flicking her tail proudly; Bucky gasps, outraged.

In that hour, Steve and Bucky talk only a little, Bucky going in and out of the room doing… God knows what, Steve hears a muted clunk at one point, like someone dropping a heavy object on the carpet, but Bucky doesn’t mention it when he comes back, almost seems a little flushed. He must have fumbled something. 

“How do you know Sam?” he asks. He’s served Steve coffee in a French press and delicate china cups. Steve is only ninety percent worried that they’ll break if he _breathes_ on them wrong. But what is he supposed to do? _Not_ drink? With Bucky’s steely eyes watching his every move? He’ll sip his coffee and be glad of it. At least it distracts him from the way a strand of Bucky’s hair has come free and now curls around his high, beautifully carved cheekbone, stretching towards the corner of his lips.

That shit should simply not be allowed. Steve _will_ be petitioning his senators to outlaw it. 

Think of the _children_.

“We met at a protest in D.C.,” Steve tells him. He’d burned his tongue on the first sip of coffee, so his speech is slightly slurred. “That was after… God, yet another school shooting, I think? Not one of those that made the national news—because apparently, we got too many of them to report on every single one. I got in a fight with some NRA dirtbag and Sam just appeared out of the blue, had my back, swore up and down to the officer that the other guy had started it. Which he had, but not by taking the first swing. But he was really fucking aggressive with some of the teens there.”

Bucky’s eyes are still slightly narrowed; it’s almost as if he doesn’t quite trust Steve—a one-eighty from how he’d been over mail. “So, you’ve known each other how long?”

“Uh,” Steve counts on his fingers. “Give or take five years? Maybe a little more, but definitely not less.”

Bucky hums, pulls out his phone. “I have to make a call, excuse me.”

When he’s gone, the bump from upstairs comes again. Bucky must be really clumsy.


	4. Bucky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Bucky makes some inquiries

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im heading into exam-writing hibernation now, it's due for friday next week, RIP me

Bucky isn’t a witch. He is, in fact, painfully human (except for his left arm, but Bucky doesn’t like to contemplate that), but he’s got enough experience to perform the crudest forms of magic. Which includes calling up Uncle Eddie on a Ouija board. He couldn’t reach him on the phone, so clearly desperate measures had to be taken; Bucky also strongly suspects that Eddie just likes to make him use the Ouija board because he delights in being a pain in the ass.

Ouija boards aren’t even mystic. They’re fuckin’ party games. Eddie just enhanced this one.

Bucky spells out the code with the heart-shaped planchette ( _1-800-fightmelovecraft_ , because Eddie is nothing if not petty and also, did Bucky mention: a pain the ass? Because he is the _worst_ ) and adds his message ( _pick up your goddamned phone, this is an emergency_ ). Then, he waits.

Steve is still downstairs. Bucky keeps an ear out for the creaking of the stairs—uselessly, he might add, those stairs will creak no matter if someone is using them or not, especially when the thing that lives below them gets frisky. The house has so far not acted out, but it’s only a matter of time.

When his phone rings, Bucky snatches it up. A bit too fast, too; he has to perform the intricate dance known as the smartphone shuffle. Yes, that is the official name, it’s totally legit. It includes high stakes such as _if you drop me, I will shatter my screen_ and _maybe you’ll accidentally pick up and have your caller listen to you scramble for five minutes, butterfingers._

“ _Finally_ ,” Bucky barks. “I’ve been calling you for _an hour_.”

“ _Sorry, my boy_ ,” Eddie chuckles. His Uncle’s voice echoes through him, deep and cavernous and seemingly twined with a legion of other voices. When he speaks again, it settles into the more humanoid register that Eddie uses around other people. “ _Are you truly in danger or are you just being dramatic?_ ”

“First off, that’s lies and slander, I leave the theatrics to you—do _not_ mention the thing with the spider to me, I still have nightmares. Second of all, hypothetically… how can you tell if someone is an incubus?”

Eddie is silent for a beat. “ _Well_ —”

“If the next word of your mouth is a suggestion to take him for a ride, I’m hanging up.”

“ _You’re no fun_.” Eddie is pouting. Bucky can _feel_ it. Like he’s Force-sensitive. _Bullshit_ -sensitive. “ _I’m just saying—_ ”

“ _Stop being nasty_! I will tell Ma!”

“ _Brat_. _Tell me what’s going on, then._ ” Bucky tells him. About the absolutely divine man in his parlor, with his golden hair and baby-blues and crooked smile. He probably wakes up with perfect hair and minty-breath, probably eats nothing but starshine. And also human sexual energy, but whatever. “ _That sounds like the_ opposite _of a problem_.”

“What if he tries to suck my life force, Eddie? You gonna look my parents in the eyes and say ‘sorry, but at least he died happy’?”

“ _I’ll say you died doing what you loved: fuc_ —”

“ _Eddie_!” Bucky hesitates, bring in the big guns. “Alpine likes him.”

This silence is long and heavy. “ _Huh._ ”

Alpine, as a general rule, doesn’t much like people, Bucky excluded. She tolerates some of Bucky’s friends, seems to almost like Natasha—but Bucky had also once suspected that that woman was a witch and had brought her to meet Eddie. Eddie had assured him that there wasn’t anything inhuman about her. But honestly, that level of competence was superhuman, Bucky doesn’t give a fuck what Eddie says.

The point is: Steve is… Steve is a complication. It’s not that Bucky has anything against Incubi, he’d just prefer it if they weren’t going to be living in his guestroom. Who knows what stupid shit Bucky might do when he’s high on sex pheromones? Miss his deadline, most likely. And then Sam will murder him in cold blood, and then Bucky won’t get to see _The Mandalorian_ , and that’s the real tragedy here.

“Told you I wasn’t being dramatic.”

“ _Look, kiddo, either way, it doesn’t matter. Incubi are perfectly capable of taking a hint, if you don’t want him to hit on you, he won’t. But I know you know that. So how about you spell it out for me just why this is a problem_.”

Bucky grumbles, throws himself back in the chair in a fit of childish petulance. “He’s going to be _living_ here. He _works_ for me. It’s gonna be _awkward_.”

“ _Look, he’s probably not an Incubus anyway. They are much too rare to just fall into your lap. Sadly.”_ He pauses, reminiscing. Bucky does not want to know. _“Wait, why is he living with you? What sort of work_?”

“… some housework.”

Eddie sighs. “ _What did you break this time._ ”

*

After much whining, Eddie finally admits that the easiest, non-sexual way to tell if Steve is an Incubus, is to offer him food or drink. “ _Their digestive system is quite advanced, it has to be to process literal energy, but they can’t really handle human food._ ”

Which means Steve isn’t an Incubus; he’d drunk the coffee. He’s just a beautiful, genuine person with a smile like summer. Which makes for another problem entirely: the house is going to chew him up and spit him out. Oh God, he’s going to _die_. Bucky will have to dig another grave in the backyard, oh, this is a _nightmare_. He had so many blisters last time.

Also: holy fuck, Steve is alone in the parlor.

“He better still be breathing!” Bucky hisses at no one in particular and sprints back down the stairs.

Steve is, thankfully, still breathing and hale. He’s gotten up from the couch and gone exploring, is poking at one of Eddie’s many strange doodads when Bucky skids to a halt in the doorway. God, he’s criminally pretty: his blonde hair has dried into fluffy clumps, and his still-damp shirt clings to every curve of his magnificent shoulders and chest. There’s definitely an explosive nosebleed in Bucky’s future, what a disaster.

“Let me show you to your room,” Bucky says. “I’ll give you a tour after, show you the paintings and stuff.”

“Thank you. Everything okay?” Steve asks all worried, because no, he can’t just be an asshole, he has to be good and kind and _fuck_. This is not the home of Goldilocks’ three bears, this is the goddamn cookie-cannibal-house from Hansel and Gretel. Bucky might as well kiss his deadlines—and life, because Sam—goodbye, he’s going to be running himself ragged keeping Steve alive.

“Oh, yeah, it was nothing. Just had to check in with my Uncle.”

“I see. Wait—didn’t you say your Uncle had passed? That you inherited this house from him.”

“I did, but he’s not dead. He calls it ‘advance inheritance’ and fucked off to, I don’t know, Transylvania, I think? Arguing would’ve been a bigger headache than moving out here, so I just packed up my stuff. Shall we?”

The house is quiet while Bucky leads Steve to his room. The rain, too, has petered out, and not a single leaf stirs. Steve doesn’t notice anything, of course. He’s a city-slicker; if there’s no traffic, there’s no noise.

But the semi-wildness has its own kind of cacophony, especially in Bucky’s neck of the woods. It’s not supposed to be silent. The house itself is a creaky monster on the best days, and the outside is a whole other world of sound. There are the animals—natural and less so—the howling of the wind, the whisper of the river. Nothing is ever truly still.

It’s a warning.

Bucky sighs. He doesn’t have time for this shit.

They reach Steve’s room on the third floor. When Bucky shows him in, gallantly holding the door and everything to show that he actually does have some manners, isn’t just some curmudgeon grown too eccentric from his time as a hermit, Steve’s mouth falls open in awe. “Wow,” he breathes. His big blue eyes have grown even wider— _stop that_! “It’s like something out of a movie! Like, some period-piece, like Austen!”

Okay, first of all, Austen isn’t Victorian, but Bucky’s going to let that go. Reluctantly. Okay, he’s going to be annoyed for a few days, but then! Secondly: of all the period-films to compare this house to, he goes with something happy and bright? Please. This is _Crimson Peak_ -levels of majestic.

“Can I—?” Steve gestures to the bed.

Bucky frowns, uncertain. “Sure?”

With a cute giggle, Steve runs forwards, leaps into the air and onto the bed, bouncing up and down. He’s adorable. Shit. God fucking damn it to hell and back. Is it too late for Bucky to sacrifice himself to the devil birds out on the pond?


	5. Steve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Steve takes stock and maybe has a minor meltdown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's been a while. damn exams. but three of them are now over! reader, i lived.

Steve is starting to worry that maybe he should be taking notes, because they’re only halfway through the house and Bucky has already rattled off enough instructions and warnings to fill a whole book. Likelihood that Steve will forget those the second he’s alone again: indubitable. 

“It’s an old house,” Bucky repeats when they’re descending the staircase. “So it’s going to be noisy. I know it seems quiet compared to the city, but trust me, it’s going to seem like it’s coming alive. Don’t worry about it, it’s pretty standard. Also: Alpine. Just ignore whatever ruckus she’s making, you get used to the bumps in the night.”

And, “We have a housekeeper and a groundskeeper, but you probably won’t see them. No, really, they’re like freaking ninjas. I don’t even see them, they only report to Eddie. You can leave notes, if there’s something you want them to do. And _be specific._ Especially on the shopping list. _Really_ specific.”

And, “You’re free to go wherever, of course, but be careful of the garden. First of all, there are swans, and they’re mean. Second of all, I’m like, ninety percent certain that _everything_ out there is poisonous, so don’t eat anything, even if you _think_ it’s safe.”

Somehow, the house is so much larger than it had appeared to be from the outside, and it hadn’t exactly looked small. Steve is not quite sure why he needs to be shown the basement and the tiny guest bathroom on the top floor, but he’s not complaining. Bucky is the kind of guy who gesticulates when he talks, like Steve is himself, and he has a pleasantly soft voice that’s simply made for twilight hours and close spaces and—

_You stop that!_

Of all the rooms, the kitchen is by far Steve’s favorite. The library is impressive, of course, and Steve longs to get lost between the shelves, but it’s very obviously Bucky’s space, and Steve is already interfering. He doesn’t want to be more of a bother. Besides, there’s just something about the kitchen that makes you want to stay. The tiled floor is heated, for one, and Steve plans on making like a cat when he gets a second alone and just sprawl out in the middle. For another, the kitchen is… ‘old-fashioned’ doesn’t quite cover it.

It’s a strange mix of medieval and early modern, dark and warm and curious. There are dried or drying herbs hung from the ceiling, cobber pots and so, so many knives, and the stove is an old-timey gaslit contraption that Steve is just going to stay away from. He’s not a _bad_ cook per say… but he’s not a very accomplished one either. Thank God for the microwave.

And then there are the paintings.

There are seven, most of them portraits, but some are abstract expressionist creations, so Steve can’t say for certain what they represent and doesn’t try to guess. They _feel_ like portraits, though. For the more classical ones, one is clearly of Bucky and three girls—his sisters, he says. It’s a little sad, in a way, despite the warmth so obvious between the siblings and the pleasant smiles. Like moonlight there’s just something solitary about it.

Steve _does_ make notes for this part, outlining what needs to be done, what materials he needs, estimated timelines and such. It’s the most peculiar damage, as if spots of paint have simply disappeared. There’s nothing that denotes the course, no water damage—as Bucky had thought—or sunspots or anything like that, discounting the one area where Bucky had scratched at it. It’s just weird. But Steve can fix it, no problem.

But then there is the _Miss Anne_ portrait.

Going by the placement, it’s the most treasured of the seven, hung in the master bedroom. No one’s been in there for a while except to dust, so there’s a stillness to the room like that of a tomb. The portrait is large, full-figure, depicting a standing, blonde woman in an evening gown.

“That’s the most critical one,” Bucky confirms, standing in the door, giving Steve plenty of space. “It’s kinda old, too, don’t know if that matters.”

“Just means I might have to be more careful, maybe a bit creative, too,” Steve promises, eyes glued to the elegant brushstrokes. There’s something familiar about the style, something he can’t place, even if it’s just on the tip of his tongue. “Do you know how ol—this is a Sargent.”

Bucky hums. “Early work. Academy years, or something.”

“Bucky. This is a _Sargent_.”

“Yeah that’s what I—Steve! Okay, big guy, deep breaths now, stay with me.”

Steve can’t remember how he ends up on the floor, head between his knees as Bucky awkwardly pats his shoulder and tries to breathe with him. That painting is a John. Singer. Sargent. An _unknown_ John Singer Sargent. The signature is _right fucking there._

“This is a _Sargent_.”

“Yeah, buddy, we established that.”

“You want _me_ to work on a _Sargent_.”

“You don’t have to if you don’t thing you can do it—”

Talk about saying the magic words. Steve’s head jerks up, sudden enough to startle Bucky. “No, I can do it. I _will_ do it.” Deep breaths. He’s committed now _. Don’t fuck it up, Rogers_. That painting is probably only worth… millions. No biggie. He’s calm.

_Completely calm._

The ringing in his ear is just tinnitus, fuck off.

*

For some reason or other, Bucky is highly intent of Steve joining him in the kitchen as he prepares dinner. “I like company,” he insists, but given that he barely talks to Steve _at all_ during the next hour, Steve kind of doubts that. Also, he keeps glaring at the ceiling every time the house creaks, and then eyes Steve like he expects him to start yelling about hauntings or something equally asinine.

Steve’s tough. He can handle creaky old houses.

Even if the creaking sounds like it’s coming from a rocking chair, and he saw _The Woman in Black_ when it hit the stage in New York last fall and has had more than a few late-night flashbacks of the final, terrifying scene with the goddamn rocking chair in the attic. It’s fine. Nothing to see here.

Instead of talking, Steve puts a list together, tries to recall which materials he has at home, which ones he might be able to get at a shop, and which ones he’ll need to order online. The Sargent is going to be the most difficult; it can’t come off the wall (Steve tried; there is now a small— _tiny,_ really—indentation in the wall that had had Bucky in fucking throes of laughter, _I told you it was impossible! Move, I want a picture, I’m gonna title this ‘Brawns not Brains’_ ), so he’ll need to be extra careful cleaning it up, fix the faded spots, and then varnish it.

The quiet as they both work is… oddly pleasant. Steve is not all that great at making friends, is either too forceful or too reticent, and with a client he’s usually existing in that ‘I’m trying to be polite, but you are playing dueling banjos on my last goddamn nerve’ space that leaves little room for any sort of casual conversation.

He’s going to be living here. There’s absolutely no doubt that’s he’s taking this job—barely was, even before he took a gander at the paintings, he can admit that now. The money is too good to pass up. Making sure that he and Bucky can co-exist is crucial.

But apart from asking what they’re having for dinner and if he could be of any assistance, Steve hasn’t said a word either. Besides, Bucky had waved him off—and also shrugged, as if he hadn’t known what the pantry might reveal today. In fact, he seems to be surprised at every turn, looking over each ingredient like it’s a foreign object before chopping it up and throwing it in the pot.

It smells amazing, but that’s not the point. Point is, Bucky is kind of weird.

Okay, so. Steve might have spent half his time in the kitchen looking, but that doesn’t mean anything. Nothing is going to happen. He can’t go through that again, not right now. Bucky is a client. A gorgeous, hot as fuck client who mutters at the kitchen appliances as he cooks and glares at his house like he’s daring it to fuck with him.

That little something in Steve’s chest that gets him in trouble time and time again is tingling. Steve tears his eyes away and resolutely doesn’t look too closely at Bucky for the rest of the night. He’s not going to let himself go there. He’s _not_. This is a job only, a month and he’ll be gone. Besides: _hello_ , he’s cursed. Do not pass go, do not collect $200.

Bucky licks his lips a lot when he’s working, quick swipes with his tongue—

_Do! Not!_


	6. Bucky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which night falls and Bucky just wants to sleep

Bucky is well aware that he’s acting like a total nut, but in his defense, the house and all its creepy-crawlies are conspiring against him. He’d known that it was going to be like this, but he’d hoped that it would take more than an hour before chaos started to descend. More fool he.

He has spent the evening sneaking around after Steve, trying to keep him out of trouble and ignorant of the goings-on. It’s not easy; Steve is eerily attuned to Bucky’s presence and keeps catching him in the act, so Bucky has to pretend to be dusting or fluffing pillows or testing hinges, all the while smiling as non-threateningly as possible. Steve is either stupidly trusting or entirely too committed to being polite, because he doesn’t do much more than eyeball Bucky before going back to his work. It’s either that explanation, or the Sargent demands his full attention. Seriously, the art boner he has for that painting is getting embarrassing.

Bucky had tried to keep away from him, he really had. He doesn’t want to weird Steve out—more than he already has, that is. But then he’d caught one of the ghosts trying to sneak down from the attic, likely wanting to perform a rousing rendition of _A Christmas Carrol_ given the chains it had been dragging in its wake (which: where did it get the chains? Whose ass does Bucky need to kick?); the only reason Steve hadn’t seen anything was because Bucky caught the ghost in a flying tackle and managed to push it into a cupboard. His less-human left arm is good for many things, especially handling incorporeal entities. He’d blamed the noise from the scuffle on Alpine.

When bedtime finally arrives, Bucky slumps down on the bathroom floor of his in-suite, wanting nothing more than to collapse into bed. But Steve is just down the hall in the master bathroom, and the pipes are creaking and clanging more than normal, so instead of sleeping, Bucky spends precious minutes trash-talking the pipe creature through the drain in the tub and threatening bloody murder if it so much as _thinks_ to reenact that scene from _The Grudge._ Every single golden hair on Steve’s perfect head better remain intact _or else._

At last, Steve goes to bed, and the house settles a little. Bucky changes into his sleep shorts and burritos himself in his fluffy down comforter, grumbling under his breath. It’s raining again, a gentle tap on the window; the wind joins in, howling, making branches scratch against the windows. Bucky hopes Steve isn’t too bothered by it. These noises are native to the house, practically a lullaby. He’ll get used to it. Hopefully. Or sleep really badly, one or the other.

Worming his way to the center of the bed, Bucky flops onto his stomach and settles in for sleep. Alpine curls onto the small of his back, her rumbling purr nearly making the whole bed vibrate. She’ll stay here until he falls asleep, then go explore the house and chase the many-legged basement dwellers. No, he’s not talking about spiders, sadly. Oh, to have such ordinary problems as spiders. With luck, Alpine’s presence will keep the more daring creatures at bay, leaving Steve safe to slumber, blissfully unaware of the literal night terrors going at it in another room.

He’d asked Bucky about running trails before heading to bed, all bright-eyed determination. So guess who’s going running tomorrow, because there’s no way Steve will survive if he braves the woods alone this early in his stay. Bucky will have to go on the first few runs, just to cement to the woods that Steve is his—his _guest—_ and shenanigans will not be tolerated.

Which reminds him: how dare Steve have looked so surprised that Bucky had wanted to join him. He runs, too, damn it. Probably not as much as Steve does—have you _seen_ his legs? Wow. _Wow_ —and not usually in the morning, but he’s in good shape, takes care of himself, tries to keep active. You have to do so in order to survive out here alone, or you’ll grow more and more isolated until you become one with the house. That coat rack in the basement definitely looks like it was once a person. His sisters used to hug it goodbye, in case it felt left out.

So, yes, Bucky will be up bright and early at shit o’clock, ready for an invigorating morning run. And yes, he did have to give a pep-talk to himself to sound less pained about it. Mornings are for sleeping in, not canoodling in the woods. Damn you, Steve Rogers. Damn you and your puppy eyes and stupid, noble nose, who the fuck do you think you are.

“I still think he’s an Incubus,” Bucky mutters to Alpine.

Alpine yawns at him. The _audacity_.

Sleep. He needs sleep. He burrows in further and closes his eyes. Tells himself a story to fall asleep but gets distracted. Which type of wolf is the biggest? Do maned wolves count as true wolves? Can an ordinary wolf and maned wolf have puppies? What about jackals? Should he google this? Alpine hisses when he snakes his arm out, prompting several minutes of frustrated pouting. These details are important to his story, damn it. How is he supposed to get into it when the facts are _wrong_?

The annoyance makes the whole falling-asleep process take much longer than usual.

He wakes many times during the night. Once because he has to pee. Then because Alpine is trying to smother him, sleeping across his face. The third time it’s because he’s managed to get tangled in the comforter and can’t move his arms and his hand is asleep and buzzing and it’s driving him crazy. Then it’s because something is trying to sneak past his door; he sends it scurrying back to whatever hidey-hole it came from by throwing his pillow at the wall.

The final time, it’s because there’s a great screech and every light in the house comes on. Bucky jerks upright, fuzzy as hell and half-blind from the sudden flash of light. Then, another piercing shriek, a clang, and the depressing fizzing sound of every electronic gadget dying.

“ _Nooooooo_.” He stumbles out of bed—falls. He falls out of bed—wriggling out of his blanket cocoon. He’s going to kill whatever it was that upset the generator. Now he has to go outside and get it running again; he’s got perishables in the fridge and a giant freezer full of food, those won’t last unless the power gets back up.

He throws on a long dressing gown and grabs one of the candlesticks. It takes a couple of strikes to light the match and then the candle, his hands clumsy with sleep. What he wouldn’t give to be able to just stay in bed. He’d been having such a good dream. It was warm and dark, and someone was smiling at him; he’d felt it against his skin.

The candlestick doesn’t provide much light, just enough to keep from tripping over anything… unsavory right in front of him. Alpine isn’t dogging his footsteps, is probably sowing terror in the heart of unsuspecting ghosts in another part of the house. One of these days, he’s going to find out what exactly she is. Maybe. When he can be bothered. Someday. Eh.

“Bucky?” a voice says.

Bucky yelps, arms pinwheeling. The candle flickers out, wax flying everywhere. “ _What the fuck!_ ”

“Holy shit! Are you okay?”

“ _Show yourself!_ ”

“ _What_? Bucky?”

Wait. He knows that voice. “Steve?”

A beat. “Should I be worried that you seem to be expecting someone else?” Steve asks wryly.

Bucky narrows his eyes in Steve’s general direction. Now is not the time for sassy houseguests. Even if Bucky had forgotten that he had a houseguest. He fumbles in the dark, eyes struggling to adjust. His hand finds warm skin.

A _lot_ of warm skin. And a bit of hair. Does Steve just have semi-hairy shoulders or—

“Tell me I’m not fondling your chest right now.”

“Um.”

“Please, kill me now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Accidental double update! This is part 1/2


	7. Steve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Steve comes to appreciate a particular shade of red and makes a Not-to-Do list

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i already posted one chapter today, but this niggled at me, so here ya go!

Steve is sleeping soundly, carelessly star-fished across his plush, soft bed, when that infernal nails-on-a-chalkboard screech pierces through him, quickly followed by a flash. Has lightning struck in the garden? A second later, all the bulbs fizz and spark. Not lightning then; just a massive electrical surge.

He fumbles his way to the door, stubs his toe on the way and definitely does not cry a little. He thought for sure there were no furniture in his path, so what the hell did he just hit? Doesn’t matter. He gets the door open and peeks out—and nearly has a heart attack.

There’s a ghost moving towards him.

A ghost in a long, billowing Victorian dressing gown, the belt loosely tied at the waist. Its— _his_ — face is achingly beautiful, all high cheekbones and deep-set eyes. He’s half illuminated by a single candle, a cold, spectral light—wait, that’s not a ghost.

“Bucky?”

Bucky shrieks and the next few moments are chaos. A snarky conversation, a titty grab, and an apology later, Bucky gets the candle relit. His whole face is tomato red with embarrassment, but he meets Steve’s eyes almost belligerently.

“Nice gown,” Steve says, because he knows only one way to break the ice, and acting the asshole is it. It’s also how he makes friends. What? It _works._ The only friend of his that hadn’t been on the receiving end of a Rogers Asshole Special is Peggy, and that’s solely because she would’ve punched him in the face if he’d tried it. Possibly because she’d already been in the middle of a brawl when they met. It’s a treasured memory.

Bucky pulls the gown tighter. “It’s a housecoat,” he grouses.

“Sure it is.”

Bucky doesn’t stomp his feet, but he visibly wants to. “Go back to sleep, Steve. It’s just the generator, I’ll go and fix it.”

“I’ll help,” Steve insists.

“Dressed like that?” Bucky slowly looks him up and down, pausing at Steve’s naked torso and his too-long NASA pajama pants. His eyes are a little glassy afterwards. “At least put on a shirt or something.”

“Wow, you’re not even gonna give me a guest gown?”

“I will push you down the stairs, don’t test me.”

Steve grins. Bucky’s lips twitch. And that, children, is how assholes bond.

He grabs a hoodie from his duffel and follows Bucky outside, sticking close. It’s dark as hell out here in the sticks, not at all like the city. With the clouds keeping the light of the moon and stars at bay, the darkness is nearly impenetrable, but he can just about make out the outline of the house,.

The generator is located in a small shed out in the yard, and it takes almost no time to get it back up and running. Steve valiantly assists the endeavor by holding the candlestick while Bucky putters around, flipping switches and thumping the sides of the generator when it doesn’t immediately spring to life. 

He chortles triumphantly when it finally starts humming, wiggling his shoulders like he’d be breaking out into a victory dance if Steve wasn’t standing right there. Steve smothers a laugh, reluctantly charmed. _This isn’t why you’re here_. _Stop finding reasons to ignore that._

The satisfaction is short-lived. Because not a moment later the rain starts up again, the onset so ferocious that the tin roof seems to wobble under the assault. Steve cringes, and Bucky groans; the walk back to the house isn’t long, but it’s going to be deeply uncomfortable.

“Wanna make a run for it?” Bucky suggests, less than enthusiastic.

Steve peers at the house, now slightly illuminated by the porch lights. “After you.”

They leave the candlestick behind and sprint, slipping and sliding on the grass and mud. Thank God they took the time to put on shoes. Their feet still get wet, but at least they can leave the shoes and mud outside on the porch. 

Bucky slams the door shut behind them, pushes his wet curls out of his face. His dressing gown has come undone, slipping wetly from his shoulders as raindrops race down his sculpted chest, down to pool at his—

“Nice shorts.” Steve didn’t mean to say it; his mouth just works independently of his brain.

Bucky frowns, glances down. To call what he’s wearing ‘shorts’ would be akin to calling the ocean a ‘biggish saltwater pond’. Technically accurate, but also a vast understatement. The shorts are silky, _very_ short, and excessively clingy with rainwater, outlining Bucky’s—

“If you’re going to keep making fun of my clothes, my feelings might get hurt,” Bucky pouts at him.

Steve is so far from taking the piss right now, it’s not even funny. “I mean it,” his mouth says. _Shut up_! “Maroon’s your color.” _Why are you still talking_?

Houston, we have a problem. Red alert. _Maroon_ alert.

And the night continues to go downhill, because Bucky shrugs out of the wet dressing gown—more like cling-wrap at this point—and stalks towards the staircase, only to come to an abrupt halt and spin back around. Steve barely, _barely_ , tears his gaze from his ass. Lord have mercy.

“You know what? This calls for cookies.”

Steve blinks. _Don’t look down, don’t look down_. _Be strong_. “It’s three in the morning.” Maybe. Possibly. Steve has no idea what time it is. It could be noon. As long as Bucky struts around in tiny sleep shorts, time is irrelevant. 

“So you don’t want cookies?”

Does he want to sit in the cozy kitchen and share milk and cookies with Bucky, enacting every Hallmark movie fantasy of domesticity and sugar-sweet attraction? Steve may be dumb, but he’s not fucking stupid. “I didn’t say that.”

Bucky smiles, jerks his chin out in a move that makes him look offensively beautiful. “Then move your ass, Stevie. Or I’ll leave you nothing but filthy raisin cookies.”

Steve trips after him with stars in his eyes.

Strike everything else from the record: Steve Rogers is a fucking idiot.

*

When Steve slips back into bed an hour or so later, sugar and squishy emotions fluttering about in his body, he makes a list on his phone:

  1. Do not let this affect your working relationship.
  2. Do not act on your attraction.
  3. Do not fall in love with him.



Short and succinct. It’ll have to do.

He puts his phone away and rolls over. Bucky had been right when he’d said that the country had its own kind of cacophony, and while it had bothered Steve earlier, now he’s almost soothing. It reminds him that he’s not in New York, that he left it because he needed change, and that he’s only here because Bucky hired him. He’s technically Steve’s boss. Steve can’t— _won’t_ —let himself forget that.

And that voice? The little voice in his head that whispers _but what if he’s The One_? He banishes it to a dusty corner. _Besides_ , he tells it, _I felt that zing with Peggy, and look how that turned out. I know better now._ And the voice says, _you know why that went wrong. You gonna blame a curse or admit that it was your fault all along?_

He gnashes his teeth. His stupid heart tends to beat as if it’s never been broken. But it has.

When Steve met Peggy, he’d been instantly smitten. But he’d been insecure and so beaten down by his rotten luck that he’d buried his feelings and kept quiet, even when Peggy had shown interest in him, too. He endured it and the world kept spinning. They’d become friends, and he’d loved her more. For almost two years, neither of them even looked at another person. He’d started to hope; it started small, grew fast.

But they had waited too long.

Falling in love with Peggy had been as easy as breathing. But loving her, finally giving them a chance? He couldn’t do it. The great romance was no more, had died piece by piece with every denial he’d uttered against it. Still, they tried, too stubborn to do anything else. They’d loved each other so long, why wasn’t it working?

And then Peggy had met Daniel Sousa.

With his own eyes, Steve had watched Peggy fall in love. Reluctantly, guiltily, but truly and deeply. She never cheated on him, never encouraged Daniel, and Daniel had kept his distance, respectful. But Steve had known. So he’d let Peggy go. That wasn’t when his heart broke.

That was when he first fell in love. When he looked up and there she was, and he’d known he’d never have her. Don’t feel bad for him; it’s just the way it is. He and Peggy are friends still. Not as close as they once were, but that’s to be expected. Daniel is a good man; hell, Steve _likes_ him. He’d even go as far as to say that that was the best break-up he’d had, because he got to see the joy it brought.

None of that will be an issue this. Because he’s not going to fall in love with Bucky.


	8. Bucky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Bucky ponders his house-guest and definitely isn't mooning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi y'all! i've survived every exam and now my new semester is starting. i can't say for sure how this will affect my writing speed, but for now it looks like there's both a lot of reading and academic writing to be done, so i might slow down a bit. we'll see, eh? 
> 
> hope u'll enjoy this chapter! it ends on one of my very favourite fanfiction cliches

Steve had decided that he had enough info to gather the necessary materials and gone back to New York to stock up and pack for his extended stay. Bucky had forced him to take the car, stubbornly refusing to let him leave before he’d agreed. Honestly, what had the dumb punk thinking? That he would be able to transport all his materials and luggage on the death-trap engine-with-a-seat he dared call a motorbike? That thing was one rusty bolt from coming apart, never mind the added weight of Steve’s brickhouse body.

Much as the obvious had been staring him in the face, it had still taken an hour to get Steve to agree. He was clearly used to outstubborning his opponents, but Bucky hadn’t lived in this house without developing a backbone of fucking titanium, and Steve had met his defeat. You’d think a grown man would pout less about such a small loss, but no.

He had looked cute though. Not that that matters.

What matters is that Steve has barely been gone for a full day, and the house somehow feels empty without him. Bucky is used to being alone, doesn’t get as lonely as you’d think. It helps that he takes extended holidays and spends weeks just being around people, even supersedes his comfort level just so that he’ll be relieved to be alone again. It had been one such holiday he’d been on before noticing the problem with the paintings. So why the melancholy restlessness?

He has ensconced himself in the library, sorting and re-sorting his story notes while the _Hadestown_ soundtrack plays. Okay, so maybe he’s only been listening to one particular song on repeat, but _Wait for Me_ is a masterpiece, and Bucky is not ashamed to admit it. Meanwhile, the house is silently judging him.

“You don’t think I’m weird, do you?” he asks Alpine.

The cat, curled up on her back like a baby in Bucky’s arms, huffs at him.

“I’ve never been so insulted in my life.”

This is stupid. He doesn’t know Steve well enough to miss him; it’s not like they’d even spent every second of the last few days with each other. Their relationship walks a fine line between _a handyman-ish character is in my space. Do I supervise? Do I leave him alone? Do I talk to him? Do I have a meltdown trying to figure out whether I’m bothering him?_ and _there’s a guest in my house, I must take care of him, I must ensure his comfort_. It’s fraught, to say the least. 

And then there’s the fact that Steve had been acting a little weird. Not that Bucky knows him well enough to truly comment on this, but he has eyes, and despite evidence to the contrary, he was actually raised in a pretty ordinary household and knows how to at least pretend he doesn’t know that monsters and ghosts are real. And normal people don’t act like Steve has been doing, not unless they’ve got something to hide.

At first, Bucky had chalked it up to Steve being on edge from the awkward worker-client tension, but Bucky had been doing his best to welcome Steve, sitting down for meals with him, drawing him into conversation, going running at shit o’clock in the morning with him. Bucky may have hired him, but he’s not anyone’s boss, and he doesn’t want Steve to feel like he has to stand at attention for him. Steve had _not_ grown more at ease; if anything, he’s even more tense around Bucky.

Thus the conclusion: Steve doesn’t like him. And that’s where the spiraling started.

It kind of bothers him. A lot. Where did he fuck up? Because he has to have fucked up; what else could account for how Steve had taken to avoiding him, even when they were right across from one another? He’d be all puppy-eyed eagerness one moment, then retreat into himself the next, and finally flee, a mess of excuses in his wake.

Bucky just wants to fix it. He’d thought they were off to a great start—discounting how freaky Bucky himself had acted when Steve first arrived. And the whole Incubus-incident; that’s water under the bridge. Because then there’d been the generator and the rain and the late-night cookies, and Steve had smiled. Bucky has always an easy time making friends, and he’s never before had a reason to doubt his skills, so he’d figured that was it, he’d have a new friend by morning.

That’s not how it went. He doesn’t like it.

He groans and pulls out his phone, sending the same text to three different people. One of the things he has learned about Steve—because, weirdly, Steve both falls all over himself trying to make conversation _and_ trying to avoid saying anything—is that they don’t just have common friends in Sam Wilson, but also in Natasha Romanoff and Dum Dum Dugan. Wildly different introductions, of course.

The message is simple: _Steve hates meeeee._

The responses are… varied.

Nat: _boo you whore_

Nat: _but also what did you do_

Bucky: _why do you assume I did anything???_

Nat: _steve is literal sunshine so i can only assume u fucked up_

Dum Dum: _you’re being dramatic again_

Bucky: _that doesn’t sound like me_

Dum Dum: _are you honestly inviting me to roast you right now_

Dum Dum: _screenshot353.jpeg_

Dum Dum: _screenshot593.jpeg_

Dum Dum: _screenshot964.jpeg_

Bucky: _WHY DO YOU HAVE THESE_

Dum Dum: _receipts_

Bucky: _I’m telling Irina_

Dum Dum: _bold of you to assume she hasn’t already made a collage of them_

Sam: _where’s my outline, Barnes_

Bucky: _new phone who dis_

Sam: _JAMES BUCHANAN_

As Bucky respects Sam (read: fears the Disappointed Voice), he whines and knuckles down. The Disappointed Voice is _the worst._ When Sam becomes King of the Entire World, it’ll be because he’s used that voice to shame everyone into doing the right thing and elected him King. (Yes, Bucky knows that kings don’t get elected, but Sam would find a way. He’s sneaky like that).

Alpine, incredibly displeased with no longer being the sole center of attention, swans out of the room, fluffy tail twitching petulantly, even when Bucky makes sad noises and _pspspspses_ at her to come back. A moment later, there’s a small crash, possibly a vase shattering.

Bucky rubs his temples. “You’re picking that up!” Silence. “I know you can manifest thumbs, missy! _Don’t ignore me_!”

That vase is not getting picked up.

Is it too much to hope that one of the ghosts will do it for him? Probably. Especially after the shovel-talk Bucky had to give them _again._ They’ve been sulking noisily since then. As if they were innocents and not shit-kickers of another world (literally).

See, Steve had come bouncing into the kitchen on the first morning, proclaiming, “I met the housekeeper!”

Considering that both the ‘housekeeper’ and ‘groundskeeper’ were goddamned lies that Bucky had made up to keep attention from the fact that the house was a living entity, his answer to this statement had been to spit juice everywhere. When he’d wiped his chin (and chest, and table, and wall, and—) he’d asked, “Oh, _really_?” Someone was getting their ass kicked.

Steve hummed. Smugly, because he’d barely been there twenty-four hours and already done something Bucky hadn’t in been able to do in years, or so he thought. “I guess she didn’t hear me in the shower.”

“She walked in on you _in the shower?_ ”

“Well,” Steve had blushed, “I was behind the curtain and everything, so it wasn’t as embarrassing as it could’ve been, but I must’ve given her a fright, because when I peeked out, she was just standing in the corner, facing the wall. I apologized, of course!”

Only Steve Rogers would apologize to someone walking into _his space_ unprompted.

“She say anything?” Bucky had asked through his teeth.

“Nah, just kinda stood there, so I ducked back behind the shower curtain and let her run out. I’ve left a note for her, I don’t want her to think I’m mad.”

Bucky had been plenty mad for the both of them. 

He forces that from his mind and gets to work on his outline. Once he gets started, it’s not really that hard; he’s had every piece mapped out for a while now, floating in his brain in loosely connected plot-webs, liberally dusted with lines of dialogue and backstory that probably won’t be important enough to include in the actual story.

So why hasn’t he written this all down earlier than literally an hour before his deadline?

Elementary, dear Watson: that’s not how things are done around here. Everything, be is easy or difficult, gets procrastinated until it either tries to kill you or you stress yourself out so much that you somehow end up doing everything _except_ the thing you were supposed to be doing. Then, and only then, will you consider doing the thing.

He’s attached it to an email to Sam and is putting the last touches on the accompanying whiny message (because there is only one way for Bucky and Sam to communicate professionally and that is through excessive and extensive bullshitting), when the house shudders in warning and a car drives up outside.

Steve is back.

Bucky stills, heart speeding up. Why is he excited? Steve doesn’t like him. Except both Nat and Dum Dum had implied that he was overreacting, so maybe Steve doesn’t _not_ like him. Yes, that sentence makes sense.

But Bucky wants more than to be just ‘not _not_ liked’; he wants to be well-liked, damn it. Yes, he puts way too much stock in the opinion of near-strangers, he’s aware of this. That’s not the point. Point is: he is going to make Steve feel so fucking welcome he won’t know what to do with himself.

Plan made, he hurries from the library, flies down the staircase. In his rush, he doesn’t notice Alpine lying in wait; she swipes lazily at his ankles, claws biting into his skin. He nearly tumbles down the last few steps; catching himself, he spins around, aghast. “You. _Beastie_. I will remember this. No more salmon treats!”

She hisses at him; it’s her version of an evil cackle.

When Bucky throws the door open, Steve has begun unloading the car. “Stevie!”

The other man starts, looks up with wide eyes. “Bucky?”

“You’re back!”

Bucky would like it noted that his intentions are _pure_ ; he _means_ to go help Steve with his luggage, maybe pat him on the shoulder and beam at him a little to disorient him, but that is not how it goes.

Because Steve breaks into a wondrous, shy smile; the sun emerges from behind thunderclouds; the world stands still; a gentle breeze whispers through the willow branches, bringing with it the last, lingering scent of summer. Bucky, stunned and unable to halt his forwards momentum, doesn’t notice Alpine cutting in front of him, likewise eager for Steve’s attention.

Bucky trips.

And faceplants in Steve’s collarbone, nearly breaking his nose. He considers lying down to die right there; his headstone will have to read something like: _Here lies James Buchanan Barnes, tragically felled by a smile too soft and sweet. Son, brother, friend, dumbass extraordinaire._

That is not, however, in the cards. He’s got his arms through around Steve’s neck, hanging on for dear life, and Steve, Patron Saint of Bucky’s Good Intentions, has got his arms around him, having rushed forward to catch him. The imprints of his hands burn through Bucky’s shirt, leaving invisible marks on his back and hip.

He looks up slowly and Steve’s face is right there. Shocked blue eyes. Parted lips. Flushed cheeks. He’s got freckles across the bridge of his nose and teeny-tiny greenish flecks in his eyes. He smells so good, even after hours in the car.

“Hi,” Bucky breathes.

“Hi,” Steve says back just as softly. His eyes are twinkling. This is unfair. “Are you okay?”

Bucky nods, dazed. “Spiffin’.”

Steve chuckles. Giggles, really.

_Oh_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> character note:
> 
> Irina is Dum Dum's wife. It's not canon or anything, but she IS a comic book character (called The Bear) whom I adore, and if you've read anything else I've written, you'll know that she and Dum Dum ALWAYS go together in my world(s)


	9. Steve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Steve updates his Plan and spots a critter in the garden

Sam: _I don’t care what y’all are doing up there but please stop distracting Barnes he keeps whining at me and we are on a deadline dammit_

Part one of the plan— _don’t let this affect your working relationship_ —has decidedly failed. Sam’s text is just the final nail in the coffin. For days, Steve had tried to put as much distance between him and Bucky, but to no avail, because not only had Bucky noticed his reticence, Steve was a damn idiot who couldn’t curb his impulses, and so, here they were.

He’s been back at the house for a couple of days now and has settled into a routine. He goes running in the morning—Bucky no longer joins him as he’d somehow managed to run straight off the path and in a blackberry bramble last time, eyes still sleep-heavy—then showers and has breakfast with Bucky. Then he works until Bucky forces him to eat lunch with him. Then more work and dinner with Bucky. Rinse and repeat.

What Steve is saying is that he spends a lot of time with Bucky, much more than he’d expected to. It doesn’t help that Bucky is literally the only human company around, and while Steve has a great many introverted tendencies, he still needs to be around people, or he’ll go crazy. As such, his plan to stay unobtrusive has backfired rather spectacularly.

He’s adapted, of course. He’s had to, or it’ll all be doomed to end in a broken heart (his broken heart, specifically). His plan is now two-fold: _don’t act on his steadily growing attraction_ and _don’t fall in love_.

Easy-peasy.

Except not, because Bucky really isn’t down with that plan. He doesn’t even know there’s a plan, and yet he’s obstructing it with everything he’s got. After their accidental embrace (which Steve has in no way contemplated, especially not when he’s alone in his room and the lights are off and—), they’d pulled away from one another, a little clumsy with laughter. Steve had spent the rest of the day trying to gauge whether he’d been too obvious with his starry-eyed delight at seeing Bucky again. If he had, Bucky had at least been kind enough to ignore it.

Which is where a new and awful development comes in: Bucky is tactile. _Highly_ tactile. For a man who is practically a hermit, he sure likes company (or maybe, for a man who is this isolated, he strains for whatever interactions he can get, no matter how awkward his company).

The accidental embrace had been the spark that lit the fire. It’s all Steve’s fault, really. He should’ve just pulled away entirely and shrugged it off. But no, he had to squeeze Bucky’s shoulder and beam at him like a loser.

Bucky had taken it as permission to start touching Steve; it started with manly pats to the back, little nudges to get his attention, tentative and soft. Then, it became a hand around his arm to pull him away from his work, casual touches as Bucky spoke with his whole body, drawing Steve in almost absentmindedly. And now, they’re at this:

“Dingoes are so cute, though,” Steve insists. “Look at their little paws, Buck. Look at them!”

“I’m looking,” Bucky says, definitely not looking. Steve pouts at him.

“I wanna pet it.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Buckyyy.”

“They’re wild animals, Steve, and will probably eat your face off if you get too close.”

“But I’d get to pet it before it ate my face off, so really, it’s a win.”

Bucky scrunches his nose at him and wriggles his toes pointedly. How does one do that, you ask? Well, first, you shove your toes under an unsuspecting Steve’s thigh when you join him on the couch where he’s minding his business and watching Animal Planet. You blame the poor heating in the house—which, to be fair, has been acting up today, and it’s quite chilly. Then, you semi-ignore him as he’s whining about petting dingoes (and bears. They are huggable, dammit). Finally, to win the argument, you use your unfair advantage, also known as _Steve’s brain leaks from his head when you touch him._ It’s highly unfair and Steve will be suing.

He should get a medal for being able to pay attention to the TV while Bucky is this close. He’s not even looking at Steve, too busy typing away on his laptop—“Gotta make up for all the time I spend cooking,” he’d said, “Sam will kill me and bury my body in the backyard if I don’t finish this by midnight.” (Then why does Bucky cook so much? _To avoid writing, duh_ ).

It’s probably a good thing that he’s so focused on his work, because otherwise he might notice the many glances Steve sneaks at him, especially in the moments when the TV malfunctions. It’s an old boxy monster, and the picture is rather grainy, so it’s only to be expected that it glitches now and then. Bucky looks up only when it goes completely on the fritz, somehow glaring it into submission while shaking the remote threateningly.

But even if he isn’t looking at Steve right now, he has to have noticed. Steve isn’t exactly subtle, much as he tries. How else to explain how quickly Bucky pulls back when Steve is quiet for too long, how else to account for the way he won’t meet Steve’s eyes after having touched him? He must know how he affects him, how Steve’s every thought stutters to a stop at the touch of merely a finger. Just one look, and he’s gone.

One day, they won’t be able to ignore the tension anymore. But it is not this day.

*

They bid each other goodnight in the hallway, pausing before their respective doors. Bucky is distracted, hair sticking out every which way and a near-permanent groove between his brows from frowning at his screen. It’s a good thing he’s not paying too much attention, because Steve’s soft goodnight is far too heartfelt.

Steve doesn’t go to sleep right away. Instead, he sits down at the desk in front of the windows and starts to sketch. The thermostat has just taken another dive, so he’s in thick socks and a chunky sweater in addition to his pajama pants, but still shivers overtake him now and then. If one comes on right when he’s tracing the final outline in a sketch, he’s going to flip the table.

There’s not a single cloud in the sky tonight, so the moon and stars freely illuminate the many strange things beneath the trees. By now, Steve has got half a sketchbook’s worth of illustrations of the oddities he’s observed on nights like this. There are the glowing eyes that watch curiously from the tree line—raccoons, he thinks, a whole gaze of them. There are the trees that seem to move in the dark, the wind teasing the leaves and making the trunks sway. There are the uppity swans that are always by the pond, waiting for their next victim—seriously, Bucky was right to call them mean.

Tonight, there’s also a whole colony of bats flying about. Steve turns down the lights and plasters himself against the window, nose almost touching the glass. There’s a tiny little bat hanging from the roof gutter, its curious face turned towards Steve, watching him as intently as he watches it. He traces the shape of its odd nose, the dark eyes and sweetly upturned mouth.

Which leads to him drawing another smirking mouth. A pair of gray eyes. A scrunched-up nose and cockily raised brows. He tells himself it’s not Bucky and adds pointed ears with a _so there_ air. Can’t possibly be Bucky now, even if Bucky was to reveal himself as an otherworldly creature; if Bucky is anything other than human, he’s a vampire. Or a dramatically dressed elf. Okay, so maybe the impish man on the paper _is_ Bucky.

God damn it.

Steve turns the page and scribbles the odd canine shape that lurks in the bushes. It’s a fox, maybe, or a coyote. Bucky says that foxes and coyotes have recently been discovered to interbreed, so maybe it’s one such hybrid. Steve hasn’t been able to get a good look; it’s too a little to shy, a little too careful. It annoys him a great deal; he just wants _one_ good look, that’s all! Just a tiny peek.

Lately, he’s become very interested in wild dogs of all kinds. It has absolutely nothing to do with the story that Bucky is writing. None whatsoever. Okay, so it has a little bit to do with it. How can you blame him? When Bucky talks about the story, his face lights up. Was Steve just supposed to ignore Bucky’s rambling descriptions? To not put picture to his words? 

Well, yes, he was, but Steve’s not good at doing what he should do. So he channels it into drawing, because showing admiration any other way would not just violate but utterly destroy Rule One of the New Plan: _don’t act on your attraction._

At the edge of Steve’s vision, something stirs, and he looks up.

The garden has become still. Not even the strange canine is to be seen. No wind stirs. The bats are gone and with them all noise. Steve’s frozen, overtaken by something that he can’t quite name. Awe, maybe. Anticipation.

From between the trees, a deer emerges.

Steve loses his breath. The pencil falls from his fingers. He can only stare as the deer—big, snowy white, gracefully antlered—makes its careful way into the garden, each step measured and tentative. In the moonlight, it seems to shine, unearthly and effervescent and all those other ridiculous words that only pop up in slightly-too-pretentious novels about amorous vampires. 

The deer looks up, straight at Steve, and he’s struck by the strange notion that it can hear him. It doesn’t make sense—doesn’t even make sense that it can make him out here in the semi-darkness, all the way across the garden and a couple stories up.

It’s got pale pinkish eyes; must be an albino. Despite having spotted him, it keeps moving forward, long legs elegantly carrying it into the garden proper. The swans have fled to the other side of the pond, hiding among the tall weeds. Steve doesn’t blame them; those antlers look deadly.

And yet.

Its muzzle looks so soft. Steve wants to touch it, feels its velvet warmth underneath his fingertips, wants to scratch behind the big ears and comb his fingers through its dense, pale coat. He wants to get closer, to be able to see the irregularities in the fur on its forehead, to count its long, beautiful lashes.

He’s already on his feet, doesn’t remember when he stood up. He just knows that he has to move, has to go downstairs, may even have to go out into the garden and hold out his hand, wait for the touch of its nose to his skin, feel the warmth of its breath—

Bucky comes bursting out the patio doors, banging two pots together and determined to wake everyone from the townies a few miles out to the dead in every cemetery around New York. “ _I think the fuck not!_ ”


	10. Bucky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Steve finds a critter in the forest and Bucky has a very stressful day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a longer chapter, folks, i just couldn't help myself.  
> i may disappear for a little while now, i got a lotta reading to do. take care and thank u for all the comments and kudos! y'all are too good to me

“ _Get fucked!_ ” Bucky roars at the Flesh-eater. It glares balefully at him. He bangs the pots together again, the clanging making the Flesh-eater shrink away reluctantly. Bucky’s left arm aches as if on fire, especially around the shoulder where it had been ripped from his body. His heart is nearly trembling, half-forgotten memories rising in his mind’s eye, memories of Uncle Eddie’s other form surrounding him, keeping the pain and understanding at bay, cradling him like a child. “ _I will fucking fight you, motherfucker!_ ”

Alpine adds her yowl to the noise, standing right at Bucky’s side, her form expanding slowly. She doesn’t willingly fuck with the Flesh-eaters, but for Bucky she’ll do it without question. And Bucky will do it for Steve, because Steve doesn’t know how to resist the call.

Luckily for them, the Flesh-eater slinks off, it’s ghostly form disappearing between the trees. Bucky sinks back against the patio door on shaky legs. Alpine is all over him, meowing—or trying to; it doesn’t sound nearly cat-like enough, she’s so worked up. The house, startled awake, reaches for them. It, too, is unnerved by the appearance of the Flesh-eater.

He’d thought they were all gone. Or at least that Eddie’s reputation would be enough to keep them at bay.

Footsteps approach, light for the big man they herald. “Bucky?”

 _Deep breaths. Fake it_. Bucky tilts his head back, meets Steve’s eyes and forces a smile. “Hey, Stevie. Did I wake you?”

“I was already up.” He bounces on his toes, swings his arms. “So, uh, what just happened?”

It’s a little hard to play nonchalant with Alpine still plastered to his chest, still a little larger than she usually is, eyes nearly glowing, but Bucky tries anyway. “Eddie’s got some kinda prized flower, don’t ask me what it is, and that deer likes stomping all over it. Couldn’t let it happen.”

By the grace of God, Steve buys the lie.

“It was so _majestic_ , I don’t think I’ve seen anything like it in my life,” Steve rambles as they return upstairs, face lit by a grin. His eyes are still slightly glazed, dumb-founded. The Flesh-eaters influence is an insidious thing, lingering long after its prey have left its presence, as Bucky well knows. “Do you think he’ll come back?”

“No.” Steve’s face falls. Bucky would be sorry about dashing his hope if he wasn’t intensely relieved by the certainty with which he does so. Flesh-eater are rare and often inactive, except for around the full moon, which thankfully will start waning tonight. Still, it’s worrying that it dared walk up to the house in the first place. “He’s usually quite shy, and I scared him pretty good.”

“Oh.” Steve throws a glance backwards. “I’d have liked to see him clearer.”

 _No, you wouldn’t._ Bucky smiles, a bit pinched, and manages to herd Steve back to bed. Should he text Eddie? Probably. Except his uncle would come rushing back, fire and brimstone in his wake, and Bucky would like to avoid that confrontation. He barely remembers the last time that happened, but what he does remember, he would rather forget.

Instead, he returns to his room, clutches Alpine close, and raises his voice, “I don’t give a fuck how you feel about Steve, tonight, you keep him safe, and you keep that thing _out_.”

The house is quiet but for the snick of every lock engaging.

*

Outside, a canine shape that neither Steve nor Bucky had noticed emerges from the bushes. It slinks low to the ground, wide eyes darting to and fro, and with one last glance at the window where the blond man sits most nights, it runs back into the forest, its coat rippling to a buttery hue.

*

Next morning, Bucky stumbles to the kitchen, Alpine on his heels—she’s spent the whole night at his side, protective and tense. Steve’s door is open; he’s gone for his run. Bucky trusts that the house kept him locked in until the moon had started waning.

He falls onto the couch, coffee in hand, soft afghan swaddled around his naked shoulders. It’s a good morning; it’s quiet and serene and the Flesh-eater won’t be bothering them again. Steve’s safe, they’re both safe, it’s all good. Well, apart from The Situation (meaning: the itsy-bitsy maybe-kind-sorta crush he has on Steve), but Bucky’s very content to ignore that until it goes away. He slurps his coffee, smacks his lips. It’s a beautiful day.

And then it goes wrong.

Bucky’s first clue comes before Steve even re-enters the house. Alpine, until now lazing about in a chair, starts yowling. Her fur stands on end, her eyes roll, her additional fangs drop.

The next clue is Steve himself, bursting through the door and excitedly yelling, “Bucky! I found a dog!”

Bucky looks down at the mutt dancing around Steve’s legs.

That is _not_ a dog.

Sure, it’s wearing a rather intricate canine- _suit_ , but Bucky is an old hat at this, he _knows_ when a dog is just a dog. Despite the buttery-golden fur covered with liberal amounts of dirt and mud, the skinny frame—quite a stroke of genius, Steve probably fell all over himself trying to help the ‘ _dog_ ’—and big, dark eyes that are currently fixed adoringly on Steve, there is no way you could mistake that thing for a dog. It looks like a semi-rabid dingo, for God’s sake, _Steve_ , what is _wrong_ with you.

“He doesn’t have a collar,” Steve continues, completely unaware of the way Alpine is starting to unravel in the corner. “But he was so sweet, Buck, came right up to me and rolled over, I couldn’t leave him there, we have to help him.” He turns his big, blue puppy eyes on Bucky.

Bucky suffers a brief-but-fatal stroke of idiocy, but thankfully regains sense before acquiescing blindly. He tries to argue that it might be someone’s run-away pet (as _if_ ), that someone might be missing him, that neither he nor Steve know shit about taking care of a dog. He’d argue that Alpine _will_ try to eat that furball for dinner, except he’d claimed in his original email that she would get along splendidly with any pets Steve might have. 

“But he’s so thin,” Steve says, all sad and frowny. It does things to Bucky’s heart. Illegal things, he’s sure. “He’s been neglected, Buck, look at him, he’s just a puppy, who would do that if they cared about him?”

Bucky pinches his forehead. “Fine. Fine! You can keep the dog— _if,_ ” he warns, “you let me take him to the vet first. If it turns out he has a microchip, he goes back home.” Or rather: if Bucky can banish that dog back to whatever interdimensional crack it crawled out of.

“Bucky—”

“ _Steve_.”

Steve pouts. “Cap’s not gonna have a microchip. I just know it, Buck.”

Bucky throws up his hands. “Aaaaand you named him. Of course you did.” There goes the banishment plans. That dog is already Steve’s, God help them all.

Steve wants to come with them; he’s going to adopt that dog, come hell or high water or twenty thousand pages of legalese, but Bucky persuades him to stay home, shower, and busy himself. After all, if the dog _does_ have a microchip (yes, Bucky knows it’s impossible, _but work with him here_ ) then crying in the middle of the vet clinic is going to be very, very scarring for both the ‘dog’ and Steve, _you don’t wanna stress the dog more, do you?_

Steve isn’t happy, but Bucky finally manages to shoo him off.

Which is when Alpine and the dog make eye-contact. The world stands still. Sirens scream. And they lunge.

Bucky throws himself into the middle of the hurricane of fangs and claws, whisper-shouting at them both. After a scuffle, he gets the dog pinned under his leg and tries to lift Alpine out of reach. It’s not easy; Alpine is shedding her coil. You know that old Norse legend about the god who tried to lift a cat but couldn’t, because the cat was secretly the great sea serpent, Jormundgandr? That’s what this is like.

“ _Bite me again, I double-dog-dare you_ ,” he hisses at the dog. Its fur is pulling back, revealing oily sinew and pale bone. It has more teeth than a shark, needle-thin and razor-sharp. “Alpine, stop! _Stop it_! You will both listen to me _right this instant_! Fuck— _stop_ that! _Shit_! _Y_ _ou are gonna make Steve cry_!”

At that, they freeze.

“Uh-huh, thought that might get you,” he huffs, panting. His hand is bleeding a little; thankfully, it’s the left, so Steve never has to know about this. “Like it or not, you will both have to play nice. I’m gonna count to three, then let you go. If I see even one flash of fang, it will not matter that I have no magical skill; I _will_ find a way to curse you. Is that understood?”

The dog growls sullenly. Alpine yowls some more.

Fuck this day. Fuck it with a horse crippler cactus.

*

“Look,” Bucky tells the dog impatiently. “You cannot go around looking like a fucking dingo, I don’t care what Steve said about them being cute.” Because obviously, the dog had spied on them yesterday.

Cap bares a single fang, disgusted and obstinate.

They’re in Bucky’s car, parked a little outside of town. Bucky’s been arguing with the damn thing since they got in, first about whether or not it could sit up front with him—which it ended up doing, because it is very wriggly, and Bucky is not nearly awake enough for this shit—then about the dirt it gleefully rubbed into the seat, then about house rules and even human-world rules, and now this shit.

They end up spending half an hour scrolling through dog pics on Bucky’s phone, Cap turning up his nose at almost every picture, passive-aggressively staying in his dingo-form. At long last, they settle on a mixture of two breeds, Shiba Inu and Malinois: thus, he retains his buttery coat and chubby face, but also the larger size and straight tail of a more wolf-like creature. If Steve hadn’t found the dog covered in mud, Bucky would’ve been unable to explain the changes away.

After, he drives to the pet shop. “You will behave,” he tells the dog. “I’ll crack the window and be back in just a sec. Anything off, and I will get you shaved like a poodle, I swear to God.”

The dog bares its teeth; Bucky does the same. Good thing no one else is looking. 

In the store, he zips from shelf to shelf, picking out whatever the _Checklist for New Adopters!_ claims he needs. There’s a leash, food bowls, a couple of toys (does this dog even want toys?), a small grooming kit, and some premium dog food that the shop assistant keeps raving about. He also gets a few bags of salmon treats for Alpine, because doing anything else will be tempting fate to kick him in the nuts.

When he returns to the car, the dog is looking anywhere but at his face. “What did you break.”

The dog refuses eye-contact, its perky bat-like ears slumped adorably.

“ _Oh, God, what did you break?_ ”

Luckily for the dog, Steve takes that moment to demand an update via text, so Bucky’s annoyance gets derailed.

*

“I will carry you,” he threatens at their next stop. Cap growls. “Don’t test me!”

Which is how Bucky ends up striding into the pet salon with a hilariously outraged dog in a bridal carry. Given the reaction from the staffers, he makes quite the sight: hair a curly mess, mud-splattered dog wriggling furiously, paw-prints on his sweatpants and t-shirt. Which he only now realizes is inside-out.

The other dogs at the salon grow immediately silent, scuttering to the backs of their cages.

“He needs a bath,” Bucky proclaims, walking right up to the front desk. “Please tell me you have a slot available. Now, preferably. I’m absolutely willing to beg.”

“No need, hon,” the shop lady tells him. She is barely—barely—restraining a gleeful smile. “We’ve had a cancellation, so you’re in luck. You want us to brush his teeth, too? Clip his nails? Give him a trim, maybe?”

The dog and Bucky look at each other. Cap curls his lip, slightly panicked. “No, we’ll do that ourselves. Just the bath, please.”

Cap does not like being bathed. Or at least, he does not like strangers touching him, whining the whole way through, almost howling when Bucky moves out of his line of sight. Cap doesn’t even _like_ him, damn it, but Bucky still ends up perched next to the tub, Cap’s entire head buried in his armpit. This day cannot end fast enough. 

When they’re finally done and Cap resembles something closer to a dog than a rabid raccoon-dingo hybrid, he puts as much distance between himself and Bucky as possible, almost plastered against the car door and chattering madly at everything.

“You’re gonna need to practice your dog sounds,” Bucky says grumpily.

In response, Cap yips. Right in his ear.

The car nearly goes off the road. “ _That was a coyote, you asshole!_ ”


	11. Steve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which the boys get out of the house for a bit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey y'all
> 
> had the time to do this as my country is one of the ones currently encouraging people to self-isolate and thus closing down schools and all such things that would otherwise preoccupy my time. i'm fine, don't worry, just waiting it all out. y'all stay safe now!

“I will only say this one more time,” Steve says, cradling his dog’s chubby face and making pain-staking eye-contact. He knows for a fact that Cap is a super smart dog, has learned as much over the last few days, but the mutt is doing a really good job of pretending that there is nothing behind those big brown eyes other than perhaps a coked-out monkey smashing cymbals together. He’s even wagging his tail in an effort to seem cuter. “Stop trying to eat the paint. I will let Alpine use you for a cushion if you keep trying.”

Cap whines at him and slinks off to the corner to dramatically pout. You’d think Steve was torturing him rather than trying to keep him from accidental poisonings. Who knew dogs could be so theatrical?

Steve snorts and turns back to the painting he’s fixing up.

Just as he’s about to put brush to canvas, Bucky appears in the doorway, Alpine in tow. Or, well. He’s holding her, and she’s dangling from his grasp like a particularly springy slinky and looking mighty pleased about it. She hisses at Cap in greeting; Bucky clears his throat loudly to cover it, as if Steve hasn’t noticed that their pets go out of their way to be mean to each other.

“What’s up—you okay?” Steve asks when he gets a good look at Bucky’s red-rimmed eyes.

“What? Why wouldn’t I be—oh. That. I got caught up watching koala rescue videos again. There was one with a big, stout koala who’d been run over and the lady was just speaking real softly to him and calming him down for the wildlife officers—anyway! That’s not why I’m here.” He pauses next to Steve, squinting at the painting. Steve’s just doing the last touch ups before trying for the varnish, so it’s looking really good.

When Bucky doesn’t go on, he prods him a little. “Is it lunch time?”

“Well, that too.” Bucky keeps not looking at him, fumbles Alpine into a proper carry instead. “So. I was thinking. I sent a shitload of proofs off to Sam today, much more than I needed to, so we’re well ahead of the deadline, and I need to get out of here, and I’m sure you’re going a little stir-crazy, too, and I know the town usually get a fair together around this time because of all the tourists they’ll be getting in time for Halloween, and I was wondering if maybe you wanted to go?” A beat. “With me?”

Steve’s already getting to his feet. “Sure! That sounds great, Buck. Lemme just put the last touches on here, and I’ll be down in… half an hour?”

Bucky beams; it spreads across his face slowly, almost shyly. He tucks a lock of hair behind his ear. “Great. Um, I’m gonna walk Cap then? We’ll get lunch there? Dinner, maybe, too?”

“Absolutely.”

*

They wrap up good and warm, not trusting the seemingly sunny weather. New York fall is a tricksy beast, on one hand refusing to let go of the brightness of summer, on the other descending straight into winter at a moment’s notice. In Steve’s humble opinion, the New York fall rivals Massachusetts’ for beauty.

In the front hall, Bucky turns to Cap and Alpine. “Behave,” he orders, not bothering with any threats at this time (though there were definitely some being thrown around before Steve made it downstairs). 

Steve can’t help but notice how nicely Bucky is dressed; he’s got his hair up in a half-bun, his stubble has been trimmed back, and under his shearling biker jacket he’s wearing a vividly blue Henley that brings out his pale eyes to an almost unearthly degree. In his cozy hoodie and old leather jacket, Steve feels a little underdressed, even if both are neat and clean; maybe he shouldn’t have shaved, his stubble would’ve covered the blush threatening to stain his whole face red.

The drive over passes in the blink of an eye. It’s oddly tense, for some reason; Bucky is tentative with every word, only opening up when Steve needles him. They talk about the weather, about Steve’s ongoing fight to tip the housekeeper (today, she had left a pile of coins in place of Steve’s dollar bills, as in, the exact same amount as he’d left, but in small change only), about the odd shine the groundskeeper has taken to Steve’s motorcycle (why else would he keep doing repairs on it when their backs are turned?), about Australian wildlife and Steve’s friend Thor.

“He goes down there almost every summer, does volunteer firefighting and stuff. He sends like a ton of animal pics from his backyard,” Steve says fondly. “One time, he sent a picture of his face right next to a spider almost larger than he is. He’s been there enough to cultivate this weird mixed accent that confuses everyone.”

At the fair, they park in the relatively busy lot. It’s a weekday, and early besides, and there’s a bit of time before the tourist season really gets going, but still there’s plenty of people around, especially families with seemingly half a hundred kids each.

Still, Steve marches into the fairground with utter glee on his face. The air smells like cinnamon, sugar, apples, fried dough, and salted meats. Quite a few rides are up and running, and row upon row of game tents are awaiting their money and poor aim, promising teddy bears and dollar store oddities as prizes.

Before he can get lost in it all, Bucky grabs him by the sleeve. “Food first, then fun.”

The food stalls are scattered around the front part of fairground; to cover as much ground as possible, they split up and meet again in the middle to share their bounty. Between them, they get corndogs, hot wings, veggie spits (from the single vegan stand), bacon-wrapped corn, ribs, hot dogs, pizza on a stick, and copious amounts of lemonade.

“Now what?” Steve asks, practically vibrating in his seat.

Bucky grins and gestures to the whole fairground. “Whatever you want, Stevie.”

Thus begins one of the best days of Steve’s life.

They stay away from the rollercoaster for the first hour, Steve refusing to get on until he’s sure he won’t throw up all the fatty foods he’s just eaten, but after that, he’s more than happy to go several rounds with it, even ignoring the queasy feeling in his stomach just to keep hearing Bucky howl with laughter at every descent. Had this been ten years ago, he might not have made it through even once. When it gets to be too much, he drags Bucky off to the merry-go round—it’s a little lame, but it’s also tradition, and Steve wants pictures—then to the House of Mirrors where, miraculously, none of them end up walking into a mirror, then the bumper cars where they chase each other around endlessly, then the swing boat and the twister and the Ferris wheel.

From the top, they watch the sun start to set, the whole sky filling with stars. The Catskills are a majestic backdrop in the distance, the mountains glowing red and gold, having seemingly absorbed the last sunlight.

“I’ll never get over how beautiful it is out here,” Steve breathes.

“Yeah. It makes it all worth it, you know? Even if it gets lonely sometimes,” Bucky admits, just as quiet.

When Steve looks at him, he meets Steve’s gaze softly, cheeks a little flushed from the cool air, lips a little chapped. He’s been looking at Steve like this all day, in between rides, in between moments. His hand is right next to Steve’s on the railing, close enough that Steve can feel how cold it is; neither of them had brought gloves.

He could take Bucky’s hand; his heart is crying out for him to do so. But the rules shout, _don’t act on your attraction!_ It’s so hard not to, getting harder every minute. Up here, almost alone, it seems impossible that the world should ever intrude on them. Up here, he’s almost brave enough to throw caution to the wind.

Instead, he stuffs his hands in his pockets, clenches them firmly. It’s not only an incredibly awkward move, but also jostles the gondola, enough to make them both a little sick with vertigo. Down on the ground once more, Bucky remains affected, his expression a little dimmer, skin a little paler.

Steve heads straight for the game tents. The fall of Bucky’s smile stings sharply. “Come on, I’ll win you a stuffed animal,” he promises, bumping their shoulders together.

He does not win Bucky a stuffed animal. On the contrary, Bucky thoroughly trounces him in each and every game, no matter how much Steve tries, no matter how stubbornly he _keeps_ trying. The games are rigged, of course they are, but couldn’t the fair workers give him just a tiny little help? He’s got important business here! Important business as in: trying to impress someone he has absolutely no reason to or even business impressing.

In the end, Bucky walks away with a medium-sized, black-masked teddy bear in a cute blue uniform that he won himself. He crows at Steve as he stuffs it down the front of his jacket, letting it peek out. “Now what should I call this little guy? Should it be…. Champion of the Fairground? Proof I Beat Steve Rogers at the Fall Fair? Master of the Carnival?”

“You were obviously cheating,” Steve grumbles, not real mad at all.

“ _How_ , Steve? How did I cheat at an obviously, notoriously rigged game?” He makes the bear nod. “See, he thinks you’re full of shit, too.”

“ _You’re_ full of shit. Get back to naming your unfairly won bear, Bucky.” A beat. “Bear. Bucky. Bucky Bear.”

“Wow, I can’t believe you’d think I’d name a stuffed animal after myself. That’s some next level narcissism.”

“Well, are you?”

“… Obviously.”

At that moment, they pass by the haunted house ride. Steve’s been careful about avoiding it, never letting them pause nearby too long. From the outside, it looks a little like Bucky’s house, though way more ramshackle and much dirtier. Shrieks and clanging is coming from inside, fairground visitors and special effects.

“How ‘bout it, lads!” calls the fairground worker manning the entrance. “Dare to tempt fate? Scares guaranteed!”

Surprisingly, it’s Bucky who calls back, “Nah, we’re good!”

The man cackles. “Well, if you’re scared, laddie!”

Steve stops dead.


	12. Bucky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which the boys go through a haunted house

To be fair, it’s Bucky’s own damn fault. He hadn’t worded his invitation to Steve right, had allowed for that sliver of misinterpretation to remain. He should’ve made it clear, should’ve said something, done something to underscore his intentions. Anything to indicate that he’d really kinda, sorta been hoping that this would be a date.

On the other hand, it might be a blessing in disguise. He’d _thought_ he glimpsed attraction in Steve’s eyes. Had _thought_ he’d worked out why he was so nervous around Bucky. Obviously, he’d been wrong. The Ferris wheel incident has set him straight. Thank God, he hadn’t said anything, or he’d have had to move to Timbuktu and change his name to survive being shot down like that.

Doesn’t mean his heart isn’t twinging. But he has other things to worry about.

Like the idiot currently trying to ninja-sneak along the walls of the haunted house, eyes wide, body tense. Bucky has half a mind to pretend he doesn’t know him, but he’s the one who brought Steve to the fair, so he’s the one responsible for him. Even if the first thing Steve had done upon entering the ride was to admit, “I’m actually really bad with haunted houses”, which: _Steve_. Bucky had nearly abandoned him right then, despairing at every single choice he’d ever made in life.

“Bucky!” Steve hisses now. “Bucky, be careful!”

Bucky sighs. He’s walking through the house like a normal person, _Steve_. Because he’s not scared of electronic puppets and spooky sound effects, _Steve_. Even if it’s all quite well-made and probably does scare everybody—everybody _not_ Bucky. Because he lives a literal haunted house, where _you have been staying for weeks, STEVE._ He’s faced mold scarier than these theatrics. Steve has faced _ghosts._ Okay, so, he didn’t know that he was facing them, but still. It counts. Right?

But Steve acts like he’s in an active warzone; when he’s not scuttling along the walls like an anxious little crab, he’s plastered right up along Bucky’s back, herding him along with his body. His breath tickles Bucky’s nape. It isn’t fucking fair.

When Steve ninja-chops yet another unfortunate set-piece (complete with sound effects that he makes himself), Bucky throws his hands up. “Why did you even want to go in?”

Steve stares at him mulishly. “He _insulted our honor_ —”

“What’s this ‘our’ business?”

“—I couldn’t just let him do that! _Aaaaaahhhhh!_ ” A horrendously painted puppet laughs at Steve as he skitters away from it. He’s like one of those giant dogs afraid of escalators. Bucky should just pick him up and carry him out. He’s pretty sure he’d only manage about… three steps before needing a break. Steve is a big fella, all muscle. Bucky isn’t exactly small himself, but you don’t send a jeep to tow a Mack truck. 

Thankfully, they’re getting close to the exit. There’s light up ahead, just a sliver.

Steve follows in Bucky’s wake, arms hovering awkwardly close to Bucky’s side but not touching, just safeguarding. A weaker man than Bucky would’ve ‘accidentally’ wandered into Steve’s grasp by now; to be honest, Bucky isn’t feeling very strong. All it would take would be a bit of swaying, just… a little… bit…

They’re two yards from the exit when there’s a flash and a shriek, and suddenly Bucky is against the wall. It happens so fast; one second, he’s moving forward, the next, his feet leave the ground, the whole world moves. He closes his eyes and expects his head to collide with the wall, but Steve’s hand, warm and gentle, wraps around his skull, breaks the impact.

The hand is gone as fast as it came. When Bucky blinks the black spots from his eyes, he’s staring at the back of Steve’s head, squished between the wall and Steve’s whole body as Steve faces the ‘threat’. Peering over Steve’s shoulder, he spots an incredibly gleeful looking haunted house employee holding a polaroid and grinning at them.

“Wanna get this, or can we keep it for the collection?” the employee asks cheerfully, waving the polaroid around.

No way is Bucky leaving that around for future funfair workers to laugh at, and yes, that is the only reason he forks over the outrageous amount of money for the damn thing. It is not because it’s one of the only things he’ll have left of Steve when he leaves. That would be sentimental.

They stay at the fair for a while longer, then make the drive home through the night. Steve’s in the passenger seat, smiling softly down at the polaroid and Bucky tries very hard to focus on the road. It’s a silly photo; the photographer managed to catch them right as Steve reaches for Bucky, frantically pushing him away from the danger.

“That went better than I thought it would,” Steve says. At Bucky’s skeptic grimace, he adds, “I didn’t punch any fairground workers. Actually, I might even say that this went well.”

“Seriously, how are you not this freaked out at my house?”

“Your house isn’t scary, Buck, it just has… character.”

“Lying is a sin, Rogers.”

“I ain’t _lyin’_.”

“Stretching the truth then. Stretching it _real good_.”

It’s easy between them. The nerves Bucky had had driving to the fair are gone, extinguished by Steve’s gentle ignorance, and even Steve appears settled in a way Bucky has only otherwise seen when Steve is immersed in a painting. At home—Bucky’s home, not their home, _don’t forget that_ —Steve goes to check on his bike in the garage, and Bucky heads into the house.

He stops dead in the doorway, jaw dropping.

Alpine, Cap, and the entity from below the staircase all freeze, staring back at him, too. Cap’s got one of the beast’s tendril-like limbs caught in his mouth, obviously pulling it down the stairs towards it’s hidey-hole, and Alpine has stilled from smacking it along. The beast, looking very inconvenienced and sulky, gnashes its teeth.

And then Steve walks up the porch steps.

It’s just dark enough that he can’t see anything inside the house just yet, but Bucky slams the door shut anyway, Cap and Alpine frantically pulling and shoving at the beast as Bucky stalls. He’s sure he looks manic, leaning awkwardly against the door, smile a bit too wide to be anywhere near alluring. But what’s a man to do? _Fare thee well, dignity, I knew you never._

All he can do is hope he won’t ruin everything with this. “I had a really nice time tonight.”

Steve blinks. “At the fair _you_ invited _me_ to?”

 _Oh, right_. “Absolutely! Did you have a nice time?”

“Yeah, Buck,” Steve says softly, not making eye-contact. He’s apparently not oblivious enough to not recognize the usual after-date chat. Good for Bucky’s plan, bad for his hopes and dreams. Is it too late to beg for Steve to be gentle with him? “I had a good time.”

“That’s good.” He strains his ears; will their pets have cleared the staircase by now? Probably not, because why wouldn’t the gods want Bucky to suffer a little more, standing on his porch and having Steve reject him gently. That’s just how he likes to spend his nights. “So, uh…”

“Bucky, don’t. Please.”

Steve’s finally looking at him, but Bucky wishes he wasn’t. There’s pain in Steve’s eyes, like his heart is breaking, too. Viciously, Bucky wants it to, but he buries that deep. It’s not Steve’s fault that he doesn’t want Bucky like Bucky wants him.

But still, he doesn’t step back. He stands there, still, as if Bucky is the one who’s got him pinned, like it was Bucky who closed the distance between them when he came up the porch steps. But Steve’s the one who stepped in close, the one who looks back at Bucky like it hurts to keep those last inches between them.

“I won’t, then,” Bucky promises him, but can’t help but look down at Steve’s lips. Lips that Steve licks, as if he’s chasing the taste of Bucky’s words, breathing in the same air.

“I’m sorry, I’m just… I can’t.”

“It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not—”

“Steve, it’s okay. Don’t worry about it.”

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

Have any words ever cut his throat and tongue to ribbons such as these? It doesn’t matter that he says them gently, almost a whisper, an absolution for a thing neither of them can help. Steve’s head dips, the tips of their noses almost touching before his lashes dip down to shutter his eyes. Or maybe that was wishful thinking. In Bucky’s mind, they’re kissing; his back against the door, monsters inside long forgotten. Why isn’t he moving away? Why isn’t Bucky? Why, why, why?

And so, Bucky does, ending the stalemate with a broken smile he prays Steve won’t look at too closely. It’s easier said than done. They reach for the door handle at the same time. Their hands tangle, and neither flinches away. Every inch of Bucky’s foolish heart strain towards that point of contact, dies a little death as they open the door together. He can’t look at Steve, or all his good intentions will be gone.

The staircase is clear, no beastie or snarling pets in sight. At least that part was successful.

The quiet noise of their hands slipping from each other’s grasps shatter the silence between them like screams. In the darkness of the front hall, Bucky can almost tell himself he sees Steve reaching for him still.

“Thank you,” he finds himself saying, even meaning. “For tonight. Even if…”

“Even if,” Steve echoes, voice hollow.

Cap and Alpine come barging into the hall, demanding attention and saving them from voicing any more regret.


	13. Steve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which the House starts a match-making crusade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 23746 years later: have a new chapter!

However, despite all that, Steve and Bucky do end up in bed together.

Not like that! (No matter how much Steve would like it to be _like_ that). Get your mind out of the gutter and let’s back up a little.

They spend a few days—a full week? More? Time is relative when everything is awful—dancing awkwardly around each other and not talking much. Steve hates each and every second with the fire of a thousand suns. They’d only just reached an understanding after all Steve’s weirdness, and now their interactions are filled with pregnant silences once more. They don’t exactly run from the room to get away from each other, but it’s definitely a powerwalk.

This is Steve’s fault. Again. Christ, is it his fault.

He’d had Bucky right in front of him. That soft gaze, that nervous confidence, that husky voice asking for more without saying the words. And Steve had begged him not to say anything, had snuffed that flame.

He should’ve known the fair was a date. It seems to obvious in hindsight. Why Bucky had rambled so much when inviting him to the fair, why he’d dressed up, why he’d been so tentative when usually he’s above such things. Hell, it even explains Steve’s own reactions to the whole scene; _subconsciously_ , he had known.

He should’ve realized it was a date when his stupid heart jumped at every new step.

And speaking of his stupid heart…

No matter how often Steve screams at himself not to fall in love, his heart has decided that everything Bucky does or says is endearing, even when it’s also a painful reminder of what Steve can’t have (and rejected. But that memory only haunts him twice a minute, so really, he’s doing quite well). The floodgates have opened and there’s no mercy.

Now, his heart twinges every time Bucky threatens an inanimate object (which Steve _himself_ does, because sometimes your printer just needs to be reminded who’s boss, and seeing his own behavior mirrored should not be as adorable as it is). When the silence between them grows too fraud, his gaze falls to Bucky’s hands and linger, remembering the unexpected touch of their fingers in the doorway that night. He takes many guilty showers that he refuses to think too hard about (the fantasies he has when he’s alone are between him, his right hand, and God, if God is feeling voyeuristic, which: ew). He passes Bucky in the hallways and gets a whiff of his scent and Steve’s pulse goes wild while his body relaxes. _Home,_ his entire beings insists.

In short, Steve’s not having a good time. But he also doesn’t want to leave.

Time isn’t on his side either. He’s down to two paintings now. The odd portrait of Bucky and his siblings and the Lady Anne masterpiece. The end of his stay approaches faster with each brushstroke, each layer of varnish.

So—and he’s embarrassed to admit this—he stalls. He works slower. He lets the layers dry longer before adding new ones. Michelangelo worked the Sistine Chapel quicker than Steve works the restoration of two measly paintings.

In between his Totally Legit Time Management, he wanders the house and the garden. He endears himself (very, very slightly) to the swans by feeding them sunflower seeds, and now they only hiss at him a little when he goes for a run in the morning. He draws every plant he stumbles across. He carefully applies duct tape to that big crack in his bedroom window that hasn’t been fixed yet despite the many semi-worried notes Steve has left the grounds- and housekeeper.

He even finds a door in the hall that he hadn’t noticed before. Cap and Alpine keep staring at it oddly, and it makes him curious. Sometimes, when he walks past it, he even thinks he hears traffic, which is not just impossible, but probably just a manifestation of his newly arisen homesickness for New York.

The door fascinates him enough that he brings it up to Bucky.

“What door?” Bucky asks with a frown. He’s been pushing his food around on his plate for the last ten minutes.

“The one beneath the staircase?”

Apparently, Bucky has never made note of that door either, because he jumps up to go investigate. For a moment, they both forget not to orbit each other.

The door is locked, and Bucky has no idea where the key might be. Not that that stops them; they spend twenty minutes watching lock-picking videos on youtube and testing their newfound skills. The door is not very impressed with their efforts and stays firmly locked.

“What do you think is behind it?” Steve asks, giddy and light and so close to Bucky, whose cheeks are flushed with effort and his tongue pokes out of his mouth. Steve wants to tackle him against the wall and kiss him breathless. “A cupboard, maybe?”

Bucky snorts. “Have a little imagination, Stevie. It’s probably a doorway to another world.”

“Of course. And when we pry it open, we’ll find ourselves with our dearest wishes.”

“That’s the spirit!”

It doesn’t matter what the door leads to, because neither of them succeeds in getting it open. It just sits beneath the staircase, taunting them with its very existence. Steve has dreams of what might lie behind it; a dusty cupboard, nothing but darkness, a never-ending staircase. But the dream that repeats is Bucky’s off-hand notion; the door leads to another world. Or rather, it leads to the only world that really matters: it leads home. In the dream, Steve opens it, and he’s in New York, in an apartment he’s never seen before, but it feels like his. And it feels like Bucky’s.

Steve likes those dreams the most, even if waking up hurts.

When reality hits, he distracts himself from his idiocy by planning for the break-up blues he knows will hit the second he’s back home. (This might not count as a break-up if we’re talking semantics, but that’s not going to stop him from feeling the blues). So when he gets home, he’ll go to his local bodega and pray to God they’ve got that odd import ice cream stocked—the dark chocolate or the cherry-raspberry sorbet—and then go to his apartment and gorge himself, and cry into Cap’s fur, and try not to dwell on what he could’ve _briefly_ had with Bucky, before the curse kicked in.

Because he _could_ have had something. They may not talk much right now, but now that Steve’s eyes have been open, it’s so obvious it might as well be a neon sign flashing in the dark. It’s in the way Bucky laughs at Steve’s bad jokes, or the way he truly listens when Steve nervously fills their conversation with odd art history facts that no one outside of art historians finds all that fascinating, or the way he looks at Steve in unguarded moments. Like the sight of him is both a balm and a bruise on his soul.

Steve sighs. He’s in bed, listening to the rain drum against the roof and the howling wind breaking against the windows. Cap is curled up on his feet, listening to Steve complain about his woes with a long-suffering air. That dog can be really judgmental for someone who gets bullied by magpies whenever he steps outside.

“—and why did he have to be nice, too?” Steve complains. “Sure, he’s a dick, but a nice dick. He probably _has_ a nice dick. And I shouldn’t even be speculating about that!”

Cap sneezes in something that might, if you’re generous, be considered agreement. He has such odd vocalizations. He doesn’t really bark; Steve suspects he doesn’t really know how. Oh, sure, he can _woof._ But those woofs are so carefully articulated you’d think that Cap’s unsure of how to produce the sound. He’s still a very noisy dog, though, and a good conversation partner besides.

(Despite the put-upon aloofness he’s trying to pull off).

“You know what the worst thing is? It’s that I’m the only thing standing in the way. Fuck, we could be so good you know?” Steve continues. He rescued Cap from homelessness and hunger, he can deal with listening for another moment. Even if he’s listening to something that has been said at least twenty times at this point. “And another thing—”

There’s a roar of thunder. The wind whips the tree branches outside the window into a furor. Whips so hard, in fact, that one of the thicker branches slam right against the window. It hits the exact spot that Steve’s holding together with duct tape and prayers. And, because Steve is really, truly cursed, the duct tape (and the window) breaks.

“ _Shit_!”

It shouldn’t be possible, but the windowpane breaks into a thousand pieces, showering the floor in tiny little razor-like bits. Cap yowls and Steve jumps up to grab him at once.

It doesn’t take long for Bucky to come barging in. It’s like something out of a movie; the ancient candlestick, the silk robe, the messy curls and wild eyes. Cat on his heels (and wow, Alpine gets really big when all her fur puffs up like that). “Stevie? Fuck, stay still, are you okay? Try not to step on anything, come here—”

If there’s one good thing to come out of this evening, it’s that Bucky gets very handsy when he’s worried. Steve’s about to combust for all the soft touches, especially those that land on his neck; Bucky cups him with such aching familiarity. It’s unbearable and Steve wants it more than anything.

And then the evening takes a turn for the worse (yes, even worse than the window breaking in the first place). Because there are no other places for Steve to sleep; his own room is a mess and missing a window in a storm, so obviously he can’t sleep there. But all those other guest rooms in this big house? Apparently, _all_ of them have broken windows. Not quite like in his own room, but enough so that rainwater and wind is getting in. 

Next logical step is a couch. However, the heater _has_ been on the fritz for a while, and tonight it’s cold as hell in the bigger rooms. They try starting a fire in the fireplace, but the paper crumbles up and the logs just won’t catch fire.

“I’ll just take the floor,” Steve suggests.

“Where? In the hall? Absolutely not.” Bucky’s got his hands on his hips, and his chest puffs up with indignation. If you ignore the blush and the shifty look, you’d almost think he’s got it all under control. “You’ll stay with me.”

And that is how Steve ends up in Bucky’s bed.


End file.
